Terrifying Words

 "I have no solutions."

Another Great Night in the Bar

Holy shit, it was another great night in the bar.

Frankie was having a blast, always the life of the party.

Frankie who always made outrageous pronouncements.

Like tonight. 

He kept telling everybody that he was going to play Russian Roulette when he got home. That this might be the last time anybody sees him.

Then he would laugh, but the person he was talking to would laugh first.

"Frankie, for Christ sake, your aim is not that good. Even if you got the bullet instead of the empty chamber, you would fucking miss! You'd probably end up shooting your autographed picture of Elvis Costello instead."

More laughter, another shot of whiskey.

2:00 am. Closing time. Hugs all around.

Bob says "See you tomorrow, Frankie - same place, same time - I got the first round."

Frankie says "You never know, Bob - you might hear about me in the news tomorrow."

Bob says "Fuck you, Johnny!" With love and respect.

Frankie drives home and loads six bullets into his Smith & Wesson Model 29 .44 magnum.

The game didn't last long.

Bob hears about Frankie in the news the following day.

Johnny Rialto Ruiz

Johnny Rialto Ruiz experienced bucketloads of sadness.

He couldn't believe how much of it there was. He did not understand why it didn't go away.

Everywhere he went, every move he made, sadness stalked him. It was as if sadness became animated, that it had its own life, that it could think and move. That it could outwit him.

He tried to live in the moment, he tried to be grateful for the holes in his shoes. He did as he was told by the experts who knew exactly how to make the most out of life. Apparently their advice was not universally applicable. Maybe it was the experts who outwitted him.

He was nice. He was very nice. He was nice to other people. Everyone. So very nice. But they were not nice to him. The niceness that he put out there evaporated into the atmosphere. People sucked it in like oxygen and then moved on. Without appreciation.

This he did not understand either.

The people who stole his niceness were like people leaving a restaurant with a doggie bag in hand, who sudddenly come across a homeless man. People who reach into the bag, eat the leftovers in front of the homeless man and throw the bag at his feet.

Niceness never came back to him.

But the sadness was relentless. He woke up to it, walked through the day hand in hand with it, sat with it by his side at dinner and while watching TV, went to bed with it.

It exhausted him. It hollowed out his guts.

The harder he fought it the more tenacious it became. Until it overwhelmed him.

He was found dead in his recliner. 

No evidence of suicide, no evidence of foul play. No fuss, no muss.

Just death. 

Johnny Rialto Ruiz's soul hovered over his body as John Krakow and Edna Pufkin puzzled over his death. As they processed and eventually cleared the scene. Their conclusion? He just died. Died of natural causes apparently.

Johnny's soul tried so hard to bridge the gap. Tried to tell them that he died from sadness. A suffocating, all-encompassing sadness. Tried to tell them that sadness kills.

But they could not hear him. 

The deafening roar of their own sadness - Krakow's raging alcoholism, Pufkin's violent marriage - drowned out Johnny Rialto Ruiz's desperate attempt to communicate the harsh reality.

Sadness is the number one cause of death in the world.

Insanity 2023 (It's What's For Dinner)

I am a GIP.

Genuinely Insane Person.

I am at my most comfortable when I am being insane.

The last time I was truly over-the-top insane was 2014. Just in case you are challenged in the math department, that was eight years ago. Eight fucking years. Apparently my balls were cut off after that.

Allman Brothers, second to last concert ever, Beacon Theatre, NYC. Me & Phil. Fucking legendary.

Phil is the last of my close friends who will get crazy with me. Especially in New York City, especially with the Allman Brothers. We had a blast. We did that twice over the years and NYC has never been the same. Unfortunately he spends 6 months a year in Florida. Killer commute.

We used to hit at least one Allman Brothers concert every summer, many times two, every year for 10 to 15 years, with a rotating cast of characters. Sometimes four of us, sometimes 10 of us, sometimes more. That was insanity. Designated driver (usually a van), beer, whiskey, pot, cocaine. Dangerously insane deliciously fun. I sang, I danced, I laughed, I met other ABB fans, we talked, we laughed - I was alive. 2014 was not quite like that but we tried like hell - there was an ocean of alcohol, a lot of laughter, and a very late night in NYC. Tasty enough.

I don't need insanity at that level any more. What I do need is to get out to listen to live music while consuming more alcohol than my doctor would recommend. I hardly ever do that at this point in time. Why not? It is in my very nature to do that. This drought has to end.

Trouble is, it ain't easy. I can't find anyone to go with, and the concerts I go to are too loud for Carol because of her hearing issues. And I refuse to drive drunk. I can go alone and skip the booze, I have done that before, but it reduces the fun factor by 99.5%. Booze & Blues go together like living and breathing.

I bought a ticket to see Poppa Chubby and Albert Cummings - two blues giants on the same fucking bill - at the Flying Monkey on January 28. I have no idea how I am going to pull this off, but I am going to pull this off. Either no booze, or a hotel room. Trouble is Uber in fucking NH is almost invisible. Fucking backwards state. And the challenges accumulate.

Maybe I can sleep in the men's room or under a table. I am open to improvisation.

My point is, I am kicking off 2023 in style and I am administering CPR to my natural insanity. I am determined to make this happen.

I have felt dead for a looooooooong fucking time and a big part of that has to do with how tame I have become. I bore myself, for Christ sake.

I have a lot of shit I gotta rip open and turn around and change and revive and kill in 2023 - my "to-do" list for resuscitating Real Joe is frighteningly long. 

Insanity is right near the top of the list. If I get insanity back to where it is supposed to be, a lot of other shit will fall into place.

Hot damn, 2023 will be a fun year.

It's You and Me, Baby

 "Mr. Rollins liked to sit by the pool at night, smoke weed and watch losers fighting their way home on the 405, nothing but red to wherever work-a-day assholes lived......................

He watched the line of red lights trapped on the freeway, inching through hell toward nothing, each light a loser too stupid to know what he was."

From The Promise, by Robert Crais.

A Forensic Review of Thanksgiving 2022

Fucking awesome.

Still is. Carol and I are chillin' today. Doing absolutely nothing.

I should be working hard to save my life. We should be organizing the house so we can improve the odds of selling the fucking thing. But we're not. We are relaxing to the max. Because we fucking deserve it.

Thanksgiving day was supreme. Started off slow like they usually do. Sitting around the living room, watching football, shooting the shit.

But when we move to the table, piled high with the food Carol has worked so hard to prepare (she works her ass off on Thanksgiving and she loves it), the intensity picks up. Conversation, laughter, intimacy - this family rocks. This family is comfortable together, this family is love.

The day had a bit of a strange feel to it because if things go well (?) it might have been the last time we celebrate Thanksgiving in this house. After 36 years. Thirty six. Melancholy, but life moves relentlessly forward and forces change whether you want it or not.

Friday? Carol and I chilled to the max. Laid around the house like a couple of beached whales, only getting up to eat more turkey. Watched a thousand Law & Orders. Delightfully decadent day.

Saturday? Carol's birthday? Holy shit - what a day. Went out for breakfast with Craig & Amanda. Laid back, chowing, talking - intimate family stuff in a very relaxed atmosphere, a very relaxed way. Great start to the day. 

Came home for an hour (I took a semi-nap), jumped up and drove half an hour to meet up with Jeff and Becky (our nephew on Carol's side, and his wife), to watch their son Ryan play in a hockey tournament.

Ryan is our grand-nephew - how the fuck did we get so old?

Now dig - we hardly ever see them - we go years without seeing them. Ryan is 13 years old, last time we saw him he was 5. But we are close to them. Wanna know how that works? It works because there is love there. Carol and I both are in regular contact with Jeff - phone calls, texting etc. 

After the game Ryan shook my hand and hugged Carol, after being re-introduced to us. Very cool. AND, Ryan wished Carol a happy birthday, which was hilarious because Jeff and Becky forgot, even though I texted them a reminder before we hooked up. Got an "Oh shit I forgot" out of Jeff.

It was very cool to spend time with them and very meaningful.

Strange reaction on my part - I usually get quite depressed on the day after Thanksgiving; I hate that it's over, I hate the quiet in the house. Not this time - I felt happy. Maybe because I knew Saturday would be a good day. And maybe because my family filled my soul with a pride and a love and a happiness that gives me the strength to flip off reality. Maybe I'm learning. Here's hoping.

Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday. Great day, quiet day, great day, quiet day. A 50/50 mix. 

It has been spectacular.

Tomorrow Is Coming

Those words spark the same emotions in me as the characters in Game of Thrones felt when they heard the words "Winter is coming."

Tomorrow is coming.

On one level I guess I should be happy if I wake up alive. If I do, it means I have another shot at rescuing my life.

On another level if I wake up alive I will be fucking miserable. Because I have to work.

I have to break this cycle. It is causing me a great deal of misery.

That is a 2023 goal. Deal with this shit. Once and for all. I'm a big boy, I got a brain (this is your brain on drugs), the fucking world is my oyster. There is so much more to me than the world is aware of.

As long as I have to fucking work, I have to find a way to laugh it off. Because what I do is a fucking joke; it is menial, it is demeaning, so fuck it - don't take it so seriously. But ultimately I have to find a way to wriggle out of this responsibility, this fucking torture.

Selling the house could be the ticket. But even if it does bring me freedom, I still have to "do" something with my life. I need to validate my existence on this planet. I need to use my talents.

I need to achieve. I need to perform to the level of my natural ability.

I am tired of my life, I am tired of whining, I am tired of feeling so empty.

Tomorrow is coming.

Fuck tomorrow.

Celebrate tomorrow.

Thanksgiving. Carol's Birthday. Christmas. My Birthday.

The Golden Time of the year. A magical run.

This is when joy happens.

Thanksgiving kicks it all off. Today!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!. Cannot wait.

Thanksgiving is like a goddamn religious holiday in this house. We do it right. Got the right attitude about it. Our favorite day of the year. Keith and Craig feel that way too, which makes me and Carol happy.

Food, football, conversation and laughter. And underneath all that, I believe we all have a healthy sense of gratitude for how amazing this family is. That is what truly makes this day.

Carol's birthday. She will be 69. What can I say about this woman. This woman who treated our sons like the precious life forms that they are. Protected them, took care of them, laughed with them, taught them, and allowed them to be themselves.

This woman who has put up with my weaknesses and consistent underachievement for coming up on 45 years. I don't know why, but I am thankful that she has. I never would have survived without her love.

Christmas. Christmas is hit or miss with me. This year is hit. I am already emotionally invested in it, listening to Christmas songs, digging on the vibe. Because I myself am in a radically, emotionally vulnerable state of mind. Christmas will shine this year, baby.

My birthday. I will be 69. Big fucking deal every year. Because I am sensitive. Introspective. Because I am fully aware that my life is slipping away even though I do nothing to save it. I lean on Duane Allman's words every January 1 for inspiration. But I never truly take them to heart.

On January 1, 2023, once again, my intentions will be pure.

Four stepping stones to happiness. Each one a joy in and of itself. Hopefully, collectively building to a tidal wave of contentment to kick off a new year.

New Year. Magical words.

The perfect definition of hope.

I Always Wanted To Be Alone

When I was a kid I liked to play Little Army in my backyard.

I would set up my plastic army guys in the grass and go to war.

In the meantime my brother and the neighborhood kids would be gathering to play Birdie Ball - a sport we invented. Used a birdie instead of a wiffle ball and a tennis racket instead of a bat. We should have patented the fucking game - I would be retired now.

They wanted me to join them. I would say "If you carry me over to the driveway, I will play."

And they would. I don't know why. They should have just spit on me.

When I was a kid my favorite game in the world was a board football game. Pick a play - run or pass - roll the dice and see how many yards you get. Or if you fumble or get intercepted. You could punt and kick field goals too. Move a marker up and down to track field position.

I used to keep win/loss records. I played various teams, but for some reason the dominant teams were the Chargers and either the Raiders or the Chiefs. I think the Chiefs. Those were the teams I played the most, and the teams I was excited about. I don't know why.

I could play the game alone. Which I did. Endlessly. Did not need anybody else. Defintely logged hundreds of alone hours playing this game, maybe thousands. I played it a lot. I loved it.

I always wanted to be alone as a kid.

Other than my family, I should have stuck to my guns.

Still, I Was Embarrassed

At work yesterday, I was talking about today - Thanksgiving - to the new girl on the block.

Bex. She is the new assistant manager. Been around a couple of months. 24 years old. A good future ahead of her.

Just me and her in a quiet box office. Nobody buys fucking tickets on the day before Thanksgiving. Thank god. I did not have to deal with fucking customers, the bane of my existence (even as they are the lifeblood of the business - seems I'm always at odds with whatever form of commerce I am forced to support).

I was talking about how much I looked forward to seeing my sons. Tears trickled down my cheek, I got choked up a bit, had to compose myself before going on.

Thankfully she is an artsy liberal, drenched in empathy - she did not bash me in the face with a baseball bat.

Still, I was embarrassed.

Until I got home and thought about it.

I am proud of the intensity of my love for my sons, even after 39 and 42 years.

No Gettin' By

I am both a Banana Head and a Pumpkin Boy.

An exceedingly dangerous Fruit Faction.

I don't think I can survive it.

Oh My God!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Killer Ducks are marauding throughout the countryside!

Quick!

Grab the sweetcorn!

Me & Lon Chaney (A Lot In Common)

I have beat myself up pretty good in here this year.

My intent was to be raw and honest in order to embarrass myself to change.

It hasn't worked, so far. Over a lifetime, I have built up a solid repertoire of personas that auto-respond in any situation. The man of a thousand faces, like Lon Chaney.

I was a baby yesterday. Off the rails over unresponsive apps. This is a facet of my personality I have to obliterate. It is embarrassing and unproductive.

The problem is that I am so weak I cannot build a wall between an immediate infantile response and what an adult should do. A step back. A deep breath. A moment to go from apocalyptic to mature.

I have created a world where time off from work lasts 14 seconds, and time at work lasts eternity plus. So anything that goes wrong on off days is the fucking end of the world. And I am perennially exhausted, so the fuse is short.

These are not excuses. They are fucking bullshit. Adults deal with this stuff; I don't.

That's all I got to say.

Wake Up, Shithead

Thinking about heavy shit lately, and being emotionally affected by outside influences.

Two things to consider:

Last weekend I watched the entire first season of And Just Like That, with Carol. Sequel to Sex and the City.

Big dies in the first episode. He dies, for Christ sake. I liked Big. He was the cool rich guy I want to be. His death hangs over the entire first season.

It got to me. Here's why. I have been randomly having the thought recently that at some point one of us - Carol or me - are going to have to learn to live without the other. It's coming.

Oddsmakers advise you to bet heavily - everything you got - on Carol outliving me. It's a rational bet with little downside.

Except for the capriciousness of life. What if she goes first? It could happen. It would be the most unfair thing to happen ever in the entire recorded history of mankind but........................

Big's death hung over the entire first season like the heaviest of fogs. How Carrie dealt with it, how her friends dealt with it, the effects, the after-effects, the ripple-effects, the pain, the emptiness, the loss - it felt pretty real.

Carol can survive without me. I cannot survive without Carol. I am self-destructive. I would self-destruct.

1) Beyond that, being alone, after loving her for over 45 years, being alone without her laugh, her positive atttitude, her toughness, her fierce determination to be exactly who she is no matter what.............I would have a better chance of surviving without food than without Carol.

 Do not read the following if you plan to watch this movie:

2) We watched a movie yesterday - Don't Look Up - a quirky movie with some big names in it with a decidedly unhappy ending. It shits on the current political climate in this world, against a backdrop of a comet heading towards earth that will destroy this world. Which it does.

In the final scene, Leonardo DiCaprio is having dinner with family and friends, in full knowledge that the comet is about to hit. An emotional scene, a "one last chance at togetherness" scene that really hits home.

As the house is beginning to shake, as glasses and dishes rattle on the table, as the world begins to end, DiCaprio says : "We really did have everything, didn't we? I mean, when you think about it."

That comment, and the fact that Carol or I will have to learn to live alone - is crushing me.

Living alone, for obvious reasons.

DiCaprio's comment, because I continue to wallow in pettiness, and fucking waste the precious little time I have left with Carol when, in reality, I really do have everything, don't I?

I am fucking determined to wake up.

Not Something Born

 "I wait. I compose myself. My self is a thing I must now compose, as one composes a speech. What I must present is a made thing, not something born."

From The Handmaid's Tale, by Margaret Atwood

We All Still Remain (Always)

 "In the clearing stands a boxer, and a fighter by his trade, and he carries the reminders of every glove that laid him down, or cut him 'till he cried out in his anger and his shame, "I am leaving, I am leaving", but the fighter still remains.

From The Boxer, by Simon & Garfunkle

Dinosaur Rant (Until I Bleed)

Fucking technology fucking blows unless it works.

I hate it. I love it.

Got me a weekend. Decided we should start Thanksgiving early. Get us a quick and dirty breakfast.

Dialed up the Dunkin app on my phone. Hole fucking moly I got me 696 bonus points. Who knew? I don't keep track of that shit.

I use the app all the itme, order up my shit and walk into the store like a King - pluck it off the shelf while all the commoners stare at me in envy.

Walk out all cocky and shit.

Not today, motherfucker. Started messing around trying to apply bonus points to the order, it got all fucked up, stole the points, would not complete the order.

I am FURIOUS. I can't deal with this.

Fuck it, we'll go to McDonald's.

Except wifi is a bit dodgy, apparently. I tried to call McDonald's on my cell phone to see what time they stop serving breakfast - BECAUSE I WILL BUY BREAKFAST TODAY - and the fucking call would not go through.

THE FUCKING CALL WOULD NOT GO THROUGH.

We have this thing called a land line. I was way too fucking mad - over the top furious to use it. Ranting and fucking raving like Lunatic Lou.

All I want is some Peace - all I want is my Fucking Breakfast.

Right now Carol is driving to Dunkin to pick up breakfast the old fashioned way.

And I am beating my fucking head agaist the wall until I bleed.

The Leaf

Lying in bed this morning looking through the glass sliders at trees in the yard.

A lone, dead, leaf caught my eye because it was twisting in the wind on a branch. Looked like it was barely hanging on. There were four or five dead leaves closeby, but they were barely rustling in the wind, a gentle wind. But this guy was dancing.

For some reason this leaf was twisting like mad, like it really wanted to drop off that branch. Or hold on; I wasn't sure how to interpret it.

It would shimmy, shimmy shake for a bit, than get quiet. Until it began twisting again. Violently.

I was mesmerized. I really wanted to see this leaf float to the ground, but I don't know why. I don't know if I needed to see the ultimate confirmation of it's death, or celebrate it's escape from the tree and it's dead mates.

All I know is that I was really emotionally caught up in this drama. Kind of like Ricky Fitts with the floating plastic bag.

I hung for about 10 minutes. Then I moved to the bathroom, where I had an even better view. As I performed my morning ablutions, I kept an eye out. Brush my teeth, look out the window. Floss, look out the window.

When I completed my allotted tasks I stood by the window for 10 minutes and watched. Both cats were in the room with me saying "What the fuck are you waiting for?"

The leaf did not drop.

I popped into this room for a couple of minutes and got another angle.

Went downstairs to gobble pills, eat yogurt and make coffee (oh shit, here we go again, for Christ sake).

Made use of the downstairs bathroom, where I had yet another vantage point to monitor the leaf.

Nothing.

Gave up.

Just came back up here many hours later and the leaf is gone. It let go. It fell.

I so wanted to watch it float to the ground.

I have no explanation for why it got under my skin so much. But it did.

Sometimes something connects on an emotional level that has no rhyme, no reason.

It just is.

And that is reason enough.

No Better Description

 "She was obsessed with the president - his circus peanut-colored hair and dead lizard eyes, his intransigent stupidity and mean-girl fifth grader's vocabulary, the sheer nightly Groundhog Day shock  that millions had chosen this impulsive dunce to be the most powerful man in the world, and might again."

From Truly Like Lightning, by David Duchovny

So Alone in the Dark

Each and every morning as I lay awake in the dark of 3am, 4am, 5am, my brain quietly, but relentlessly and viciously, rips me a new asshole.

With extreme prejudice.

Never Get The Chance

I have today off from work.

I have the worst work schedule in the entire recorded history of working man. Every other fucking day. It's like Chinese water torture.

It has been a real grind lately.

Two weeks ago I worked three days in the box ofice and five shows at night. FIVE! I have never worked more than a couple of shows a week.

Full disclosure: My boss was sick as hell - non-functional, and two other people that we rely on to work shows were unavailable. I did it because it had to be done, and I didn't gripe about it (too much).

Besides, I will get a big, fat check. Enough to retire on. Or not.

But my nerves were shot at the end of that stretch. I was ready to kill. I worked two shows on a Friday night - TWO - one at 6:00 and one at 8:30. Bob Marley, the comedian. We had over a thousand people at each show. Which means I dealt with a wide swath of selfish, obnoxious fools.

I grabbed a slice of pizza around 6:45, in between shows, ran out to eat it in my car like an animal, and was back in by 7:15. I live a glamorous life.

This week I worked Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday. Two co-workers were unavailable.

But I have today off. Isn't that wonderful? Isn't it wonderful that I have today off?

I am so grateful. It is important to be grateful for tiny, little things.

Because odds are you'll never get the chance to be grateful for large things.

We Got One!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Somebody made an offer on the house.

A reasonable, bone fide offer in writing and everything. 

We accepted the offer.

Came out of fucking left field.

Our realtor called on Monday, he came by with another realtor on Tuesday representing a woman in California (who used to live around here), we got the offer Tuesday night, signed the paperwork on Wednesday and revved up the engine.

I never expected this to happen. Never. This house sways back and forth in 10 mph winds.

Naturally I remain realistic. 1,000 things can go wrong between now and the deadlines that have been set.

Ebenezer Scrooge - "Make sure that a check for the entire amount is deposited with my clerk. I don't ship until I have the cash in hand."

Me: "I will believe this is real on the second that we close and not one second before."

I have been banking on reeling in an unsuspecting rube. I don't know if this woman is an unsuspecting rube; I can only hope. Or.............maybe she has an emotional attachment to this area that will override logic.

This is the first step in a 20,000 mile trip.

But it is more real than I ever thought possible.

Which is a lot more than I can say about my life.

The Great Whiskey Crisis of 2022

I was sick as hell in October.

Upper respiratory infection. Kicked the hell out of me.

For a week to ten days I drank no whiskey at all. Had absolutely no urge to do so. When I got back to it, it did not taste right. It did not taste good.

What? Crown Royal? Did not taste right? I have been drinking Crown Royal since the second grade and have always loved the taste. LOVED it.

It still doesn't taste right. I bought a bottle of Jack Daniels, which was OK, but not spectacular. The other day I stooped low and bought a bottle of Seagram's 7. Seagram's fucking 7. I figured if I am not going to enjoy it I might as well save some money.

Editor's Note: Stop fucking judging me. Since I was sick I cut whiskey consumption by 75%. The last handle of Crown I bought lasted a month. I used to buy a handle a week. I go days without drinking any alcohol at all, and I have learned how to go to sleep without drinking whiskey. I am a man among men.

Used to be that drinking Seagram's 7 was like sucking on an overflow pipe from a septic tank. I only bought it when, after paying the fucking mortgage, the checking account balance was $8, of which I spent $7 on The 7. (This used to happen a lot).

I poured my first glass the other day, grimaced as I raised it to my lips, and................it didn't taste half bad. In fact it was kinda OK.

What the fuck is happening to me?

I am totally off balance.

I should drink only premium whiskey. I fucking deserve to drink only premium whiskey. Appropriate for my stage in life and my delusional self-image. Besides, goddamn it, I have done my homework. I sampled a lot of whiskey before landing on Crown Royal. A lot.

Maybe Jesus is sending me a message through my taste buds. Preparing me for poverty.

Poverty financially.

Poverty of the soul.

Jesus Fucking Christ - we already live 4 clicks below the poverty level.

How much worse can it get?

Fuck me.

I Bought a Horse

I want to gallop into 2023. Establish momentum.

Yesterday was a shitty, rainy, snowy, November day. So I brought the horse into the house.

Set him up in the living room, although it is hard to keep him contained. He is a large animal.

I try to keep him on the left side of the living room so he doesn't block the TV. We are americans. We cannot survive without TV. But he is antsy and mobile. He pretty much goes where he wants to go.

Which is OK with me because he is gentle, pretty, and graceful.

I named him Big Fella.

Emmy Lou and Patsy get along with him very well. After the initial "getting to know each other" phase (which was frightening, trying to keep his hooves from crushing them), they are now best friends.

Big Fella takes them for rides. Sometimes individually, sometimes together.

They have learned to jump up on his back and snuggle in to his mane. Then he saunters into the kitchen and back to the living room.

It is cute as hell.

Sensible Shoes

Sensible shoes.

The worst insult you can hurl at anyone. He wears sensible shoes. She wears sensible shoes.

Unfortunately, I wear sensible shoes. Rockport Men's Junction Lacetotoe Oxford.

Trouble with my back, trouble with my knees. I went through many pairs of shoes until I found these.

I have been wearing them for years. Pair after pair after pair. And they are fucking ugly.

But when I wear them, paired with Dr. Scholl's Heavy Duty Support Pain Relief Orthotics, Designed for Men over 200 Pounds, my knees don't ache, my back doesn't hurt. For the most part. Six+ decades in, there is always pain. All you can do is minimize it.

When my knees begin to ache, it's time to swap out a new pair of Dr. Scholls. When that doesn't work, it's time for a new pair of shoes. Useful omens.

I have become comfortable with the ugliness. Almost proud of it. Who gives a fuck, really.

I used to consider myself quite fashionable; now I don't care. I used to be a peacock; now I am walking my "look" backwards to basic. Not unfashionable, just basic in a stripped down way that still says something about me. I'm working on it, it's a work in progress.

Used to want the coolest shoes on the planet. I have owned a pair of two-tone shoes. I wore a pair of red "sneakers" just a few years ago. When I was tending bar at the Legion. You can imagine the response I got with those.

But here I am. Rock you like a hurricane. Christ, man - song lyrics - I just can't stay away from them.

2022. Rockport Men's Junction Lacetotoe Oxford. Dr. Scholl's Heavy Duty Support Pain Relief Orthotics, Designed for Men over 200 pounds.

When I was in college, I bought an orange crushed velevet suit (my father loved it).

My, my, I have come a long way, baby.

Who knew?

Who the fuck knew?

Official Countdown: 46 Days

Being Human

 "Yes, Mother...........I can see you are flawed. You have not hidden it. That is your greatest gift to me."

Alice Walker, Possessing the Secret of Joy

I Love You, You Vicious, Hurtful Bastard (My Savior)

How many more times am I going to talk about my fucking morning ritual?

100? 200?

Coffee, book, cat. Jesus Christ, I've been over it 333 times in here, but I keep fucking coming back to it.

Because every time, I think I am adding something to the perspective, saying it a little differently, adding more emotion. I gave you my painful knees and aching back this time, didn't I?

But the goddamn truth is, I am just saying the same thing over and over and over again.

And you are sick of it. I know you are. And I know you. You are a vicious, hurtful bastard. Violence cleanses your soul.

You own a crossbow. I have heard tell. And you're good with it. Accurate as a motherfucker.

Go get your crossbow. Load up a bolt. Cock the crossbow, and sight on the middle of my chest. 

Dead middle, where all my confusion and self-delusion lies.

Let it rip.

You'll be done with me and I'll be done with me. Peace all around.

No more morning ritual fucking bullshit.

Hallelujah!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Nothing To Defend Against

He loved Alone.

Lived for it.

Up early in the morning dark. Making his way downstairs on two stiff and painful kness, a sore back and various other physical insults.

Cold water for the cats. They love their cold water. Food in their food bowls. Cats first. 

And then prescriptions, stretches, yogurt. And coffee. Dark and strong, which he was not.

Settling into the recliner in a silent house, a mostly dark house, but the light was coming. Unappreciated. Dark of morning, dark of night; that was the cover under which he was most comfortable.

Book, coffee and cat. That's the morning equation.

He was alone.

Yes, he had his cat, and the presence of his beautiful wife upstairs in bed fast asleep and peaceful (he envied her that), a strong, undeniable presence for which he was grateful.

But, for now, for all intents and purposes, he was alone.

Nothing to defend against except his own thoughts, which not even a good book could beat back.

His weak spot, his vulnerability. Thoughts.

Thoughts that robbed him of a perfect moment, every morning.

Not Even Antacids.................

 "Don't hate. Hate is like a poison you make for your enemy that you end up swallowing yourself."

Fuckatology

A scientific discipline that studies mankind's obsession with self-sabotage.

We live our lives as if we are immortal. Wasting day after day after day, trading off five days for two every week, and then pissing those two days away as well.

Hurting ourselves. You don't need a knife to self-mutilate.

Hurting others. It's almost a sport.

Being petty. No fucking perspective.

Chasing security instead of happiness, even though each fucking breath could be your last. Security? Are you fucking kidding me?

I was feeling unstable and unnerved. Barely functioning. I went to consult with a specialist.

I laid out my life history for him, six decades plus. And asked "Why am I so unhappy, doc? Why do I have nothing to show? Where is all my money?"

He replied "Fuckatology, son. You are fucking yourself. You've been doing it for so long that you got it down to a science. Don't even have to think about it. You will always make the worst decision. Or no decision at all."

I said "Jesus Christ, what can I do about this? What should I do?"

He said "Nothing. Forget about it, son. You are a fuckup. Soon you will be dead. Just die and get it over with. And your suffering and embarrassment will end. Another wasted human life. One of billions. There are solutions, but you are too stupid to figure it out."

I said "Jesus Christ, that's pretty fucking harsh, isn't it?"

He said "Fuckatology. It's harsh, baby, because it's the truth."

!?!?!?!?!?!?!?...................................Boom Boom Boom

I am a Psycho Hose Beast!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I will not be denied.

Aaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhh

What? A New Asshole? Will That Really Help?

I have been ripping myself a new asshole all year long.

It has been wonderful.

I have come to yet another conclusion - from now on I am giving my vocal cords a rest. I am cutting communication short. I am curtailing the details I am willing to reveal about my life. I am giving the shortest answer possible in every situation. I will be curt.

And I will explain nothing, and say nothing about what I intend to do.

I give out too much information. And nobody gives an everloving fuck.

If somebody asks how I'm doing I might say "I'm tired, I have not been sleeping very well, I feel lightheaded all the time." The light goes out of their eyes. Because they don't give a rat's ass about me - they only want to talk about themselves.

From now on all I will say is "I'm tired." Period. If they ask a follow-up question (highly unlikely), I will brush it aside.

The companion piece to this approach is that I will no longer show any interest in what other people say. I have wasted my entire life listening to other people with empathy. I have given them a gift that has never been returned.

Fuck them. From now on, all they get is a nod and a "really?"

The genesis for this epiphany, this new economical approach, is that I feel quite strongly that I am not connecting with people lately. And I don't fucking care.

I am sick of people. Always have been. But as 2023 approaches and I am given (improbably) another shot at making a life, I am breathing fire and spitting acid.

Laying waste, baby - laying waste.

I hope to burn the flesh off quite a few peoples' faces as I make my way into one more New Fucking Year.

Absolutely Unmatched!

I am committed to a weekend - TWO WHOLE DAYS OFF!!!!!!!!!!!!!! - of Health & Weight Loss.

The intensity of my dedication is undoubtedly unmatched in the annals of the entire history - recorded and unrecorded - of humankind.

Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Chilling

I am the month of October.

Facing winter forever.

Bizarre Fate

I crept out of my house on the way to my menial day/night job.

I was met by a massive crowd of people in the driveway chanting "Hey Joe - whaddya know? Hey Joe - whaddya know?"

I was elected President of these United States in 2023.

Inaugurated on January 20, 2024.

I was assassinated on January 21, 2024 by someone who did not dig the Blues.

Snakes In My Skull

I have been putting off therapy sessions.

When I speak to her next week it will have been a month between sessions.

I am not convinced she is professionally qualified to deal with the snakes in my skull.

John, At 102 Years Old

I met John a couple of weeks ago.

He is 102 years old. He came in to the theatre to scope out the seating, because he would be attending a live broadcast of an opera the following week. He needed to figure out where he could be comfortable and where he could plug in his oxygen apparatus.

He was using a walker that day and he had a companion with him, helping him out.

We broadcast 8 or 10 operas a year. The average age of the audience is 93. They are probably the toughest audience I deal with.

Impatient, grumpy, demanding, and opinionated.

John was great. Such a nice guy. I was with him for about 20 minutes showing him around. He was alert, we talked a lot, he thanked me 76 times for helping him. We even laughed a bit.

Turns out I worked that show unexpectedly. I did not see John coming in; I was too busy beating up old folk with a fucking baseball bat.

About two hours into the 4 hour show I walked down the hall and ran into John and his companion. They had just come down in the elevator. John was in a wheelchair this time.

He was slumped over a bit and listless. I asked his companion what was going on.

She said he just could not get comfortable watching the show in his wheelchair and he wanted to go home. I spoke to John but it took him a minute to perk up and eventually recognize me.

He broke my heart. 

Originally he was so excited to see the performance. He made a 60 minute round trip just to check out the seating. He was animated. He made another 60 minute round trip on the day of the show.

He looked so uncomfortable. There was a sadness and vulnerability about him. Still, he thanked me again for my help. He fucking thanked me again.

The first time I met him gave me an unexpected joy. Purity of emotion.

The next time I saw him shattered my heart. Harsh reality.

I am so tired of this rollercoaster.

Imagine how John feels.

Lunch Was A Success! (Imagine My Relief)

A triumph, my dear - a triumph.

I expected to be scorned. 

I am the only one of my very intelligent friends who is not retired. The only one working a menial, soul-sucking job. The only one experiencing financial insecurity and uncertainty - the only one chained to a disaster of a house that sucks money out of the bank like a fucking vacuum cleaner and kills hope every second of every day.

I thought they would pelt me with rotten apples. Laugh as the rotted fruit and rancid juice ran down my face. Pin my wrists to the table when I tried to wipe off my shame, as they said in unison and menacingly "Let it drip, Loser."

Instead there were hugs all around. Many hugs. Heartfelt. Conversation, laughter, great food. 

The restaurant we met at is owned by my friend Bobby's son - Matt. Great chef. Fucking food was amazing. We got there at 12:00. We left at 3:15. Stood in the parking lot at noon shooting the shit - it was a beautiful day. Wandered in and shot the shit. Ordered food and shot the shit. Hung around and shot the shit.

We did not want to leave. Did not want it to end. A palpable sense of connection, respect and love.

After the lunch rush it was just me, my four old friends and Matt, who joined us in conversation.

Such a pleasant moment. Such a meaningful visit. Like a scene out of a movie. A movie titled "Five Friends & a Son."

I have known these guys for over 50 years. Our friendship survives over 5 decades, and remains warm and comfortable and comforting. And we laugh. We make each other laugh. That is fucking key, brother. We laughed so much together yesterday that you could even have assumed that I was happy.

I drifted apart from them for a long time - they stayed in touch with each other, but I did not make the effort. Tough to make the effort when you spend every single day for decades crawling, fighting and begging, struggling so hard to make sense out of life, make the right moves, get yourself to happy. Until you realize one day that you did it all wrong. Made all the wrong decisions, took all the wrong paths.

We met at Jim's house last summer - I was blown away. Carol and I went out to dinner with Jim and Jan last summer - I was blown away. We met yesterday - I was blown away.

These are the ones. The five. No amputated fingers on this hand. I felt it like one who knows. You know a situation is right when you feel it deep inside you, when you can't put it into words, when it is not just in your head. When it hits you like a sunset.

Bobby, Barry, Ed, Jim and Dave. Dave was not there yesterday - he lives in Virginia. 

We were quite a crew in high school. Extremely insane and extremely intelligent; a very healthy mix.

At time of departure we agreed "We have to do this together again soon." We said that last summer and nothing happened. So I took it upon myself to promise to send out reminder texts for the next gathering, which will happen the first week of December. 

This is so unlike me. Organizing people is a royal pain in the ass. I avoid it. But I will do it for these guys because we are talking about my soul here. My survival. Revival. Happiness. PEACE.

It will happen. Because I will make it happen. I have awakened like a man from a lifelong coma. The value of these friendships transcends time, disease (many of us are sick), heartbreak, and the fucking bile that life piles upon out heads.

For over three hours yesterday I was completely comfortable in the company of men I knew when they were fifteen years old. Awkward, unsure, confused, insane, fun and intelligent. There is not one stupid person in the Circle of Six.

We are 68 years old now, ragged, and we have fought our battles. The scars are evident. Ed has it the worst - melanoma that has spread - spots on the brain, spots in the lungs - endless MRI's, treatments, ups and downs.

Know what Ed did yesterday? He laughed. He fucking laughed. And made us laugh.

Our friendship is so powerful it made him forget about cancer for a while.

I am approaching the end of another wasted year. I am approaching the end of my life. I remain unhappy. I am afraid. I am lost.

And I am overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by the solace these guys deliver. I will take every chance I get to be with them.

I love them.

Strange Sensation

I get a burning sensation when I think.

So,

I don't think.

LUNCH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Having lunch today with four high school friends.

Probably the most important friends in my life (assuming I am not, once again, counting my friends on a hand with amputated fingers).

I must tread carefully.

I must maintain dignity. Strength of character.

I must be resolute.

I must present the proper image.

A Crumbbum AND A Scumbum? I Think Not

Carol likes to keep me in my place, as well she should.

I have not delivered. Over 44+ years of marriage I have earned 50 times less than I was capable of.

This would explain the state of Carol's wardrobe, and the paucity of her jewelry collection.

She holds her tongue; she is aware of my flaming sensitivity and avoids any provocation that would result in my making yet another run to the liquor store.

Sometimes she just can't help herself - she is only human, you know. When I get a bit puffed up, falsely expressing bravado and braggadocio, she cuts me down.

"You are a crumbbum and a scumbum." I hear this once a week.

I take issue. Both? A crumbbum AND a scumbum? Overly harsh.

Crumbbum I can accept. A crumbbum is a man who earns 50 times less money than he was capable of over a lifetime. Shortchanging his end of the marital bargain - "I will do the best I can and take care of you the best I can." That "best I can" shit is the catch - few do the best they can. How can we? We all fall short. Pretty pathetic.

We get tired. Distracted. Disillusioned. Sidetracked. Beat down. Defeated. Fucking lost. You can't keep fighting all the time every hour of every day. It's just too much. Sometimes you just need a drink and a peanut butter sandwich. And then you're off course.

But a scumbum, well shit, man - a scumbum is a vile human.

A scumbum binds his wife to the kitchen table, lights her hair on fire, then puts the fire out with maple syrup. After his tough day at work, of course. And then throws her a narrow-toothed comb.

I have ruined Carol's life passively, but not deliberately. Passively happens. Deliberately is cruel. I did not set out to hurt her. I never wanted to compromise her life potential by poisoning it with my own unrealized potential. I just never understood life. I did not respect or understand the rules.

There was no vicious intent.

Crumbbum I can live with. 

But if she keeps up the scumbum shit, I will have to break out the maple syrup.

Death of Democracy (Despite My Vote)

I voted, but felt kind of stuck

Like voting meant not all that much

The cretins will win

And then will begin

Democracy's death, we are fucked

If Only

 "How different my life would have been if my parents had just let me dance."

Nnedi Okorafor, Binti: Home.

Oh My god, Am I Fucking Tired

I am so fucking tired I am practically dizzy.

I am sitting here right now and I can't focus, can't concentrate, can't think - I am operating erratically and feel like a torture victim who has been kept awake for two motherfucking weeks by vindictive nuns.

The sleep "pattern" has changed recently. I know what it is.

2022 is coming to an end. A year I pissed away. My brain is tortured. Twisting in disappointment and fear. 

For a while there I was in an unfamiliar situation where I could fall asleep fairly quickly (for me) after going to the bathroom at 4 am. I chalked it up to being old and beat down but, what the fuck, it was better than staring at the ceiling. I rolled with it and dug it.

Don't get me wrong. It did nothing for fatigue. I was still tired all the time, as I have been for the last 275 years, but at least it reduced the time my brain could use to mock me.

But this is something different. I feel like I am in a waking coma. I go to bed at midnight, wake up at 4 or 5 to piss, and lie in bed awake until I stagger up around 6:30 or 7:00. Weird thing is, as I lie there I am perfectly comfortable. Perfectly.

I think,"this feels nice. I will regulate my breathing, stay calm and fall asleep."

No dice.

At the end of 2021 I was feeling pretty good about myself. Uncharacteristically and amazingly so. Shit, it felt good and I felt good. I had done a lot of work on my brain and it was paying off.

Some quotes from the blog at the end of last year:

"I am poised to be happy in 2022. I want to use that happiness as a weapon to make Carol happy."

"2022 is going to be a big year for me. Possibly the year I have hungered for, for decades."

"January 1, 2022 will be a day to celebrate the triumphs of 2021, and to set the table for the future triumphs of 2022."

2022 has been a huge pile of shit.

And my mind is wrestling with that truth whether I want it to or not - I cannot shut the fucking thing down. And it is torturing me and robbing me of any meaningful rest. Or peace.

This is not the triumphant end to 2022 that I envisioned last year.

It truly fucking sucks.

And it hurts.

Do I Suck?

I'm beginnning to think I do.

We moved to this quiet, hopeless town 36 years ago. When we did, we were folded into a circle of friends thanks to Carol. She threw herself into every activity and board and situation available. Which was very cool and very Carol. I was and am still proud of her. Everybody knew Carol and her husband.

We hung out with fun people - dances, parties, dinners. Time flies, friendships die. We see no one.

I ran into one from that crew a few years ago at the dump, where country folk go to meet and greet. JB. Great conversation, had him over for dinner, nice night. Subsequently he and I attended a blues show - Muddy Waters son, for Christ sake - can you dig it? Muddy Waters son.

The Capitol Center used to put on special concerts in a small and intimate room before the new venue opened - actually setting up folding chairs in this small space and providing a bartender. JB and I drank beer, talked, laughed and really connected through and dug the music.

I thought we had a great night. I thought I reconnected with someone I could do cool things with. Haven't seen him since. I contacted him about another show down the road, he said he was having a hard time psychologically and wasn't up for it. That was over a year and a half ago.

I used to hang with a guy many years ago - PW - we connected big time over football, booze and general insanity. Got together a lot. Time flies, friendship dies.

Found out a year ago that he had a heart attack - a fucking heart attack. He is 15 years younger than me.

I contacted him, we talked, it was good. I set us up with a blues show at the Capitol Center - a bigger deal, at the new venue. We drank beer, talked, laughed and really connected through and dug the music. Tommy Castro. Great show.

PW bought a t-shirt, a vinyl album, a CD for him and a CD for me. He got them all autographed by Tommy Castro in the lobby during a break. I thought we had a great night. I thought I reconnected with someone I could do cool things with. I haven't heard from him since. That was 8 months ago.

Do I suck?

I have to consider this. I see myself as someone cool, someone fun, someone who knows how to have a good time and help others have a good time. Have I lost that?

What the fuck is going on?

I used to say I had five friends I would trust with my life. Three of them are definitely off the list. That leaves Phil and my brother. Lately I am not even sure about them.

Have I been counting my friends on a hand of amputated fingers?

I wear unhappiness like a glove. I ooze it, I can't hide it, it is in my speech, in my attitude, in my approach to life, and in my eyes. Especially in my eyes. You can smell it on me.

Perhaps this repulses people.

If it does, I find that ironic. I am just being honest. Everybody is unhappy. Everyone else just sugarcoats it with mindless cliches, lies, and bad acting.

Of course I wasn't always this way, when I actually nurtured hope. Maybe the change is too much for the delicate people in my life.

Thankfully, I have hardened. I don't need friends. I could fucking care less if every fun thing I do from here on out, I do alone.

Thankfully, I have family to do fun things with - I can count on them. They don't jump ship.

But as for the others, fuck 'em.

If they can't see the worth in a night out with me, let them cower in their dank caves, by the light of one pathetically small and flickering candle, gnawing on rancid meat that is minimally tenderized by their tears.

May their fun rot in death.

You Are Not Alive

I am always searching for new ways to describe the sheer stupidity of the small lives we small people live.

Here's a good one:

"Bartenders hard at work. Serving up to the voices touched with bravado of payday, and mouths shut on Monday."

From The Ginger Man, by J.P. Donleavy.

Powell's

Reading a book called The Ginger Man, written by J.P Donleavy, first published in Paris in 1955.

Fascinating read. Upon it's publication it was banned in Ireland and the United States by reason of obscenity. Of course it has since been vindicated, and has sold 45 million copies worldwide and has never been out of print.

More on that later.

I bought the book used through that filthy company, Amazon.

I was reading it this morning and a receipt fell out of the book - from Powell's Books in Portsmouth, Oregon. Powell's is the world's largest independent bookstore and is legendary.

I like legendary bookstores. I revere them. I want to visit them, but of course I never will. Ever hear of City Lights Bookstore in San Francisco? 

I also hunger to visit Red Rocks Ampitheatre, a magnificent concert venue, 10 miles west of Denver, Colorado. At least make the effort to google this place - the beauty of it will render the rest of your day meaningless. Of course I'll never get there either. 

The receipt from Powell's is dated 12/03/2006. Sixteen fucking years ago. It  represents the original sale because the price on the receipt is the price on the book. I have no idea how many times the book has been sold, but the presence of the receipt indicates that everyone who has owned it has saved the receipt. Isn't that amazing? 

I will save it too.

It was sold to Kyle Johnson. 

The recipt explains the Holiday Return Policy: Store credit available for new books we carry through January 31. Refunds available through January 31 with receipt dated Nov or Dec. Merchandise must be in original condition.

A little slip of paper in my hands on a Sunday morning that makes my day hallowed.

Karma IS A Bitch

When at work I feel such a fool

Like a drunkard who can't help but drool

Karma's a bitch

I'll never be rich

My life evolved vicious and cruel

What The Fuck Is Wrong With Me?

I have never owned a house.

I have lived in two. The bank owned them - they let me live there as long as I paid them every month. And behaved.

I have never owned a house outright. I call them "house" because it is not a home unless you own it.

What the fuck is up with that? I have spent 43 years living in these houses. Houses that belonged to the bank - many banks, actually. These fuckers trade mortgages like baseball cards. No rhyme or reason, no consideration for the occupant. They forced me to scamper around like a cockroach exposed to the light so I could keep making mortgage payments. Not dignified at all.

43 years living in other peoples' houses, basically paying "rent", since I could never finalize the purchase.

Not much of a legacy.

"I am not even close to the guy I thought I'd turn out to be" - Tommy "Birdman" Rowland from the movie Beautiful Girls.

I come back to this quote time and time again (no solutions, remember?)

20 or 30 years ago I would have predicted that, at the age of 68, I would be fully and comfortably retired. Plenty of money in the bank, no worries, a lifetime of accomplishments to gloat back upon, peace of mind, living free and easy and enjoyably. With earned respect.

The reality?

I work a humiliating part-time job. I will die working that humiliating part-time job because we will never sell this house and we will never stop paying for it.

I eat Spam, cat food, and no name potato chips. When I really want a treat, I indulge in beef jerky. The chewy, tasteless kind.

I drink Natty Lite and Ten High bourbon.

Twice a year Carol and I go out for pizza.

I drive a 2020 Hyundai Elantra. I will be driving the same 2020 Hyundai Elantra in 2035.

I wear baggy pants and non-descript shirts.

I sleep like shit, every part of my body hurts, and I am 25 pounds overweight.

I watch daytime Soaps and read True Crime magazine.

But, what the hell, I gave it a shot. Right?

And it's not over, right? I am still alive. I can still turn this thing around.

I believe the captain of the Titanic said the same thing.

You Have A Choice

Are you a risk-taker or a shit-taker?

Please note: It's a lot easier to be a shit-taker.

At Age 68

 What is needed is restoration and transformation.

Solutions For Sale (If You Don't Value Your Soul)

Where does one find solutions?

John Lennon said "there are no problems, only solutions." I believe he was being overly optimistic there.

There should be a solutions store. Of course, if there was, it would be run by shysters who would sell you other peoples' solutions, leaving you to suffer and die.

How does one arrive at solutions?

They tell me you need a plan. So get yourself a plan. You can probably find one somewhere.

But there's gotta be a bridge between "plan" and "solution." Right? There's gotta be a way to get there.

Doing? Is doing "the bridge?"

I don't know. This is all so vague to me.

Apparently, some people are able to figure things out. Figure their lives out. To identify a problem, come up with a plan to deal with it, execute the plan, and arrive at the desired solution.

I don't know anybody like that. Neither do you.

Why do you think unhappy people outnumber happy people 1.3 billion to 1?

Solutions aren't real. Solutions are a concept. Concept is defined as "an abstract idea, a general notion."

You might be better off buying yourself some premium whiskey.

Jim

I was talking to one of my high school friends on Monday.

One of my closest, most meaningful friends in the world. I figured out last summer (2021) that these guys are everything to me. We met at Jim's house, 6-1 (Dave lives in Virginia), and I was emotionally supercharged.

I rarely see them. Instantaneous connection, instantaneous comfort, conversation, reminisences, laughter. This was life. It was love. It was defense against the world.

I wanted it to last forever. 

Jim called me on Monday to tell me a few of them are getting together for lunch next Wednesday. I immediately took the day off from work. I refuse to miss out on opportunities like this.

In the course of our conversation Jim said "I have no hope for this world." I agree with him. I would rather talk to someone like Jim who can be open and honest, versus talking to people who unconvincingly try to put a positive spin on life.

Life is a fucking nightmare. Especially now. We are facing the beginning of the end. republicans will gain control of the government next week and the vulnerable - you and me and every single person you know - are in for a world of hurt.

Culminating in the death of democracy in this country.

I would not give a shit, if I didn't have sons. If it was just me, fuck it, I am close to death anyway, who fucking cares if my life becomes even more miserable.

But I have sons. They have women that they love. They will be around for a long time, and I don't want them to suffer at the hands of politicians who are evil, vicious, and greedy. Infantile jerkoffs who think this is a fucking game. Until the dictator they enable comes after them.

I hope they suffer financially, emotionally, and, especially, physically.

The extreme opposite end of the spectrum from Jim is the Disingenuous Optimist I work with. I have spoken of him often in here. He makes me nauseous and breathes life into my cancer.

He better be careful tonight. 

The place I work is fucking insane right now - this week - nine shows in five days. That is fucking ludicrous.

I worked a show last night, I am scheduled to work two shows on Friday night and one show Saturday afternoon. The thing I hate the most about this job is working shows.

AND my boss is sick as a dog, and two of the people we rely on are not available to work so..............my boss texted me this morning to ask me to work a show tonight.

Final tally for me - five shows in four days.

Disingenuous Optimist will be in the box office when I get there tonight. He knows I will be furious about this situation. Nevertheless, he will say something incredibly stupid like "Isn't it great you get to work here tonight? You will have fun."

I may kill him with my bare hands. I will pounce tonight - I will shut him up and cut him off at the knees. I am tired and angry and I have no patience for his la di da approach to life.

One of the many reasons I love Marc Maron is he manages to be apocalyptic without sounding like a whiner. What he says sounds like truth, like logic, and it ain't pretty. About himself, about people, about life, about politics. He manages to inject humor into his opinions, which makes them more palatable.

Apparently I am not that talented. I have noticed people shying away from me recently, at work. Of course this is not a normal audience - these are extreme liberals infatuated with the arts. They want the world to be lollipops and kittens.

Anyway, next Wednesday will electrify my soul and bring me all the way back to life.

Tonight, a Disingenuous Optimist may meet his death.

Follow Along, Now

 "I am not a pessimist. Just a well informed optimist."

Antonio Gala

Greatest Quote Ever (Speaking As a Dad)

 "It's a wonderful feeling when your father becomes not a god but a man to you - when he comes down from the mountain and you see he's this man with weaknesses. And you love him as this whole being, not as a figurehead."

Robin Williams

My first reaction to this was pride - I have made the transition, and my sons have not killed me in my sleep. I feel we are as much friends as we are father and sons. My relationship with my sons breathes oxygen into my soul.

My second reaction was thinking that my father never came down from the mountain. There was always an air of authority about him, roughness and gruffness, concrete feelings on my part that he and I were different and he did not approve of who I became.

What would I be today if my father was more like me?

                                    or

If I was able to transcend the broken emotion between us?

I will never know.

Where Have All The Rich Folks Gone?

Had my annual physical yesterday.

I have had so many medical appointments in the last two years, that the hospital issued me personalized, motorized, roller skates and a digital badge. I glide right up to the facility, whizzing right past all the poor people, and flash my badge as I roll right in to the building. No fuss, no muss. As long as I have my mask on.

Had the physical, then a chest x-ray, because I have had all sorts of breathing related shit going on, hanging on, since I got SICK the first week of October.

Sitting, waiting, looking at all the vulnerable people walking in and out and around.

Have you ever noticed at a hospital that all the people, the patients, are broke down, defeated by life and praying to fucking jesus republicans don't cancel social security? 

Poor people. People without resources. They wear ragged, outdated clothes, there is a hopeless look in their eyes, they shuffle in and out with their heads down. They look ten years older than they really are, having been beat down for 60 or 70 years by life.They are scruffy and timid, waiting for the next round of indignities to be imposed by the Medical Industrial Complex.

And they treat medical personnel as if they have some authority, which sickens me.

This is how life works. Those without resources wait in line, get second class service, wait days and weeks for appointments, sit waiting in "waiting rooms" but get bum rushed out. No special requests are allowed.

Those without resources are on an assembly line in life, with no possibility of dignity or respect or consideration. "You will do as you're told, and speak only when spoken to."

As I overloaded on empathy the question suddenly occurred to me - where are all the rich people?

I never see wealthy-looking patients strutting in all self-possessed and condescending, hair perfectly coiffed, dressed in regal clothes. Mixing in with the great unwashed. I don't see Bentleys and Ferraris and Rolls Royces in the parking lot.

Where do these pampered motherfuckers go?

Concierge Medicine. That's what the pampered motherfuckers get - Concierge Medicine.

Look it up; I tried writing about it but it sickened me. Suffice it to say this is some premium shit with some premium benefits. In part, some of it is like going back a hundred years when doctors had real one on one relationships with their patients. In other words, patients treated with respect. As if they are human.

All at a price, of course. Membership fees, monthly membership payments - out of pocket, not covered by insurance.

In the interest of full disclosure, there are affordable plans, but I am quite sure a plan that I can afford is remarkably different than one Bill Gates can afford.

I get angry every time I visit the hospital, or any doctor, really. I feel like another brick in the wall. Registering, answering questions, filling out forms. Repeatedly. Same shit every time.

When I began treatment for prostate cancer, I was given two drugs in pill form to warn my body that crazy shit was about to happen. A one time deal in March of 2021.

To this day, when the assistant is running down the prescription drugs I take, they ask "Are you still taking this and that?" I say over and over and over "That was a one time deal relative to the treatment of prostate cancer." They never delete it.

I have had 477 appointments since March of 2021. They never delete it.

Makes me feel real comfortable about the treatment I am getting.

Rich assholes don't deal with this. They are probably handed flutes of champagne and delicate plates of caviar as soon as they walk in the door.

Medicine is one thing that should be purely democratic. We are talking about health here; your income shouldn't matter. But it does.

Because this is america.

Land of the subordinate, and home of the rich.

Oh, Yeah, Almost Forgot

So when I was with the Prostate King last week, and he was hinting around to determine the state of my mental health - how are you doing, what do you do for fun, do you travel, what do you do - I replied, lamely, "I read."

He seized on that like I was little Johnny taking his first shit on the toilet.

"Wow, really - you read? Books? You read books? With pages and everything? Imagine all the things you have learned from a lifetime of reading. The places and things you have been exposed to. Reading is so good for you. It stimulates the mind. How often do you read? Really, that is excellent." And on and on and on.

Normally I would call him a lowlife, diseased, motherfucker, but I like the guy. I have told this story before, I'll tell it again because it is so good.

A couple of years ago, in the roll-up to prostate cancer, I was in his office every other day, experiencing the intrusion of his finger up my ass regularly. I went in one day not expecting the finger and he said "OK, you gotta drop your pants." I rolled my eyes.

He said: "You know, this isn't any fun for me either." We laughed.

So I know he meant well with the whole reading overkill thing but, still, it really put my life (or the lack thereof) in perspective.

It's What You Deserve

I'm feeling like shit quite a lot,

and have no idea what I've got,

at least I'm not dead,

with hope in my head,

my enemies will get what I've got.

I Enjoy The Bread More Than The Filling

October 31 is Halloween.

November 1 is All Saints Day.

November 2 is Dia de los Muertos - Day of The Dead.

What a strange sandwich those three days make.

The Fuckers Are Lurking

 "Pay attention to your enemies, for they are the first to discover your mistakes."

Antisthenes

Ain't Had No Fun

 "I ain't had no fun in London since the Hammersmith Palais,

New York City's boring since the punks all went away,

Tokyo's gone techno and Berlin's going crazy,

I ain't had no fun since Hammersmith Palais"

I've never been to the Hammersmith Palais, but I understand the sentiment. The lyrics mourn the death of fun. I've been wearing a black armband for decades.

The Hammersmith Palais de Dance was a dance hall and entertainment venue in Hammersmith, London, that operated from 1919 to 2007. It was the first palais de dance to be built in Britain.

More lyrics from the song that resonate with me:

"It's just me and the boys and a pint or two, telling lies about things we used to do."

"Once upon a time the world made sense, now there's nothin' straight enough to rebel against."

"Ain't been no work since '82, there's only one thing left to do, make sure they know we've been here when we're through (this has become my own private goal - to make my fucking mark beyond my ascension to the throne of Toilet Maestro).

Selected lyrics from Hammersmith Palais, by Demolition 23.