RETREAT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 "Even without a recent advance, retreat is so often the sensible course."

From A Good Day To Die, by Jim Harrison

In Addition....................

I want to take a deranged road trip, maybe with a couple of other lunatics.

We will drive. We'll drink and drive, and drive fast. Marijuana may be involved. The car will be old, beat up, but strong. Kind of like me.

Every  night that we stop along the way will be a mad adventure involving food and drink and borderline psychotics. We'll find casual restaurants with funky waitresses. We'll eat Mexican food and burgers and spaghetti. We'll drink wine and whiskey and beer.

Then it's off to the most insane bar we can find, preferably with live music and relaxed standards. To bed at 4 am, up at 1 pm, breakfast at 2, and then on the road again.

I want to have meaningless conversations, ridiculous arguments and a whole boatload of laughter. Peals and peals of laughter.

The most important piece of the whole trip will be that we spend some time - some extra time - in Arizona. Maybe a month.

I want to stay in Adobe-style rental houses and cheap motels. I want to eat pork and beef with plenty of red and green chiles. I want to eat huevos rancheros and tamales and Sonoran hot dogs. I will need plenty of ice cold beer and Dos Tierras Reposado tequila.

I will carry a jug of Xtra strength Tylenol with 1,000 tablets.

I will buy a pair of Abilene cowboy boots - black, none of that floral shit. I will crush scorpions with my new boots.

I will bask in the Arizona heat as it bakes into my bones until I am 100% convinced that I can never be cold anywhere on earth ever again under any circumstances.

Then we'll head home.

Wait - who am I kidding? Once I get a taste of Arizona........................

I will never leave.

Hafta

 This morning and yesterday morning are similar.

The sun is not shining brightly, which creates an atmosphere of honesty. Especially in the house, which tends towards darkness on days like this.

I am reading A Good Day To Die, by Jim Harrison, as I was yesterday.

Sipping coffee.

Yesterday was Sunday. I did not have to work. Today is Monday. I have to work.

There is a suffocating aura of sadness and loss about today that was not evident yesterday.

A Delightful Lifestyle Adjustment

 One lifestyle I have not tried is living in bars.

Like Bukowski. Or Jim Harrison, a "new" author I am currently digging. New to me. He died in 2016 at the age of 78.

My ass is comfortable on barstools, and I can shoot the shit with the best of them, so the habitat is comfortable to me.

I have consumed whiskey with some regularity, and excessively, for most of my life and it has done me a world of good. Although, since October - four straight months now - since I contracted The Black Death, I have consumed precious little alcohol, sometimes going DAYS without a drop. Remarkable.

I worry because my tolerance may drop off. Even worse, what if this is another fucking concession to old age? I do NOT need a life without alcohol.

I have consumed alcohol liberally, but always within the confines of a life lived within the established parameters of fucking rules. I had to get up in the morning, I had to go to work.

What I want is six months (or the rest of my life) with no obligations. Get up in the morning and head out to my favorite bar to drink all day. With a host of morons, psychopaths, and mental defectives. Make money shooting pool and playing cards. Lose money shooting pool and playing cards.

Run a tab and pay it off in painfully negotiated chunks.

Live on greasy bar-burgers and fries.

Sleep on random couches. Wear threadbare thrift store clothes, shower when I get a chance, shave every nine days like clockwork.

Get up in the morning, pop four xtra strength Tylenol, down two quick shots of vodka and two bottles of water, and head out to Murphy's bar to do it all again.

I could live a life like that. I could enjoy a life like that.

All I gotta do is get Carol's permission.

Working Sucks

"John Madden was raised in Daly City, a few miles south of San Francisco, the sports-loving son of a mechanic who had once given him some very sound advice, the kind of wisdom that most fathers are too dumb, or afraid, to impart: "Don't start working until you have to. Once you do, that's it. Put off working as long as you can."

From Badasses - The Legend of Snake, Foo, Dr. Death, and John Madden's Oakland Raiders, by Peter Richmond.  

A great fucking book. More importantly - amazing advice. Perfectly honest. John Madden's father told his son the truth about life.  Working sucks. Put it off.

Ironically, Madden grew up to do a job that he loved, a job that requires you to work 8 days a week.  

But his father wasn't wrong. A parent can drive a kid to succeed, giving them the impression that life is fair and rewards await. Or a parent can be honest and tell their kid that a large portion of life is sheer drudgery and all you can do is find ways to maximize your happiness and hope for the best.

Maybe Madden succeeded because his father told him the truth. Who knows.

Personally, I think his Dad was a genius.

Otto

I'm glad my name is not Otto.

Although I would like to evolve like Otto did - before it's too late.

We saw A Man Called Otto a couple of days ago. Carol had to hand me kleenex during the movie because my emotions were out of control. I was holding off blowing my nose, because when I do it sounds like an airhorn going off, which is annoying to movie watching patrons. When the sniffing got out of hand, Carol took charge.

The movie got to me because it resonated with where I am currently living in my head.

I have come back alive in 2023; proof is that my emotions are jerking me around - I no longer feel numb. This is a good sign.

When David Crosby died I was devastated. Because the man lived a life. I am a spectator to my own life. Worse than that, I am a spectator to someone else's life - the life I am leading is not my own.

His death jolted me - I am trying to become more reckless in a beneficial way because of it. A lifetime of numbing down and dumbing down has turned me into a fucking zombie. Which is horrifying because it allows others to control my life. Fuck that.

I will take more risks, I will speak my mind, I will hear more music - LIVE - I will drink schooners of whiskey in clinically-controlled situations, allowing the nutcase in me to spring free. I will have more fun. Before it is too fucking late. Some would say it is already too fucking late and there is a large amount of truth to that but I gotta fucking try. No?

I am also aware that all of my problems are in my head. This is where Otto comes in.

I am a fucking God and nobody knows it. I need ayahuasca. But that ain't gonna happen so I need to shove a stick of dynamite into my right ear and blow my brains out to simulate ayahuasca's effect. Then I gotta move into my head like a pilgrim moving in to a cold-water flat, and refurnish the space with shit that makes sense to me. Shit that resonates with my soul so there is no disconnect between mind and essence.

Otto approached life in a way that made sense to him because he was reacting in specific ways to events that occurred in his life. His approach was not pretty. But other humans and other events intervened to show him that his approach was wrong. His approach was wrong because of his mind - his mind skewed his point of view to set him on the wrong path.

That's me. Can't you see it? That is fucking me.

Your own mind can fuck up your own life. In contradiction of the facts. In negation of other options. Not what happens to you, not what people do to you, but what you do to yourself. Do you know how many peoples' lives suck solely because of what is in their head? Approximately 7,942,645,085.

As I watched that movie I was Otto. That's why the tears flowed.

It is not a good sign when you look in the mirror and cry.

A change is gonna come.

Like a dam bursting.

I Cannot Improve Upon This

 "Every man is the sum total of his reactions to experience. As your experiences differ and multiply, you become a different man, and hence your perspective changes. This goes on and on. Every reaction is a learning process; every significant experience alters your perspective.

So it would seem foolish, would it not, to adjust our lives to the demands of a goal we see from a different angle every day? How could we ever hope to accomplish anything other than galloping neurosis?

To put our faith in tangible goals would seem to be, at best, unwise. So we do not strive to be firemen, we do not strive to be bankers, nor policemen, nor doctors. WE STRIVE TO BE OURSELVES.

But don't misunderstand me. I don't mean that we can't BE firemen, bankers, or doctors - but that we must make the goal conform to the individual, rather than make the individual conform to the goal. In every man, heredity and environment have combined to produce a creature of certain abilities and desires - including a deeply ingrained need to function in such a way that his life will be MEANINGFUL. A man has to BE something; he has to matter."

Hunter S. Thompson

26

Do you realize today is January 26th?

2023 is practically over. And what have you done?

Creeps up on you, doesn't it? Because you slip back into the routine, and the routine is numbing. The routine robs you of think. The routine numbs you for your entire adult life right up until you find yourself leaning precariously over the grave. Then you fucking wake up - wide-eyed and terrified.

You vow to finally do something with your life, you pray for a reprieve, but the Grim Reaper reaches out his boney little hand, drags you into the grave and says, with a sinister, all-knowing smile: "Too late, motherfucker." Christ, he smells bad.

You got drunk on New Year's Eve. You had a hell of a good time. You did not have to work on New Year's Day, so you nursed a hangover with more booze and two Big Macs, and vowed that this year would be different. 2023 was going to be the year you grabbed your life by the balls and squeezed with all your might until life cried uncle. Or, as Led Zep kind of put it - until the juice runs down your leg, but that's a discussion for another day and time. Besides, it was a lemon.

You went back to work. You were horrified, your mind rebelled. A day later the numbness set in. And now it's Janaury 26. Holy fucking shit. Can you believe it?

What will you be getting me for Valentine's Day?

An Old and Feeble Man

 "Hey it's good to be a young man, and to live the way you please, yes a young man is the king of ev'ry kingdom that he sees, but there's an old and feeble man not far behind, oh that surely will catch up to him, somewhere along the line, that surely will catch up to him, somewhere along the line"

From Somewhere Along The Line, by Billy Joel

Oh my fucking god - I was driving around doing errands on Sunday (how much time do we spend "doing errands" and how do we avoid that) when I heard this song for the first time - and it blew me away.

I was invincible for a pretty long time - didn't give a fuck about anyone or anything or any form of convention - took on every stupid health risk I could find. I'd snort anything anyone put in front of me, drank up an ocean of whiskey, drove drunk like it was an Olympic event, and I beat them all. I won. And had a blast doing it. But now..................I'm starting to feel like an...old...and...feeble...man.

Stiff knees, aching back, stiff and aching fingers, stiff and painful neck, shortness of breath, eternal exhaustion. Fuck that. But it's real.

Joel said he's the kind of guy that just can't accept happiness - he's always looking for the other shoe to drop. In this song he talks about eating fancy food and drinking fancy wine in Paris, "oh but in the morning there'll be hell to pay, somewhere along the line."

Talks about enjoying smoking "but now I understand you've been eating up inside me for some time, oh and I know you're gonna get me, somewhere along the line."

Talks about his satisfaction with the woman he loves "oh but you pay for your satisfaction, somewhere along the line."

But it is the young man/old and feeble man thing that rocked me. For obvious reasons. It's hard to be reckless when you're 69. Or maybe it's easier - if I run up a flight of stairs I'm throwing caution to the wind.

I'm wrestling with this getting older thing, trying to make sense of what my life is now, trying to figure out what I can do to make it better within very obvious limitations.

It's called desperation. Beyond a certain age it becomes an old, familiar sensation. An unsettling one.

Billy Joel expressed it perfectly. And hearing it in four lines of a song captures the fleeting aspect of life.

You're a young man with eyes wide open, full of wonder. You blink.............and you are an old and feeble man.

That is one very concrete definition of cruel.

Fragile Existence

 "Cracks can open in the most ordinary life and swallow anyone at all. No one is safe from the worst that they can do."

Stanley Tucci as Jefferson Grieff in Inside Man.

Every Fucking Snow Flake

Every snow flake increases my self-loathing exponentially.

Full disclosure - I'm enjoying another snow day today.

Who needs money?

What's Going To Replace That Fun?

 "Now, unfortunately, they're hitting the age where they still love me but they think I'm completely boring, and so they'll come in, pat me on the head, talk to me for ten minutes, and then they're gone all weekend. They break my heart. Now I've got to start thinking, "Well, what's going to replace that fun?"

President Barack Obama, from Waiting For The Punch, by Marc Maron

Well, what's going to replace that fun? That's how I feel with Keith and Craig gone. The ungrateful wretches moved out to live their own lives. How unbearably ungrateful. As is my way, even though they have been gone for 21 years, I still have not adjusted. My definition of fun now is not waking up dead. And even that is under judicial review.

They saved my life. I came home from work furious every day, and filled with self-loathing because of the jobs I worked. I'd get home and it was instantaneous smiles, piles of laughter.

We played outside, we played inside, we talked, we laughed, we watched TV together and laughed some more. We ate meals together. We watched sports together. Ate my Supreme Individualized Nachos together. We laughed so fucking much. 

Are you fucking kidding me? Now I have to pay a therapist to try and recapture that.

If they weren't around, I would have consumed whiskey out of a special faucet installed next to my recliner - from the moment I got home to the moment I passed out. I did eventually establish that habit (without the faucet) - I just don't remember when the full-on debauchery began. Probably when they were older and began to pat me on the head.

Obama's comment hit me in the face. It was a special kind of fun I had with my sons, because they are my sons. That relationship takes the simple concept of fun and ramps it up to dizzying levels.

I do miss it, but it's time to move on.

Bring on the psychedelics, baby.

Priorities, Baby

 I will take a lap cat over a lap dance any day.

Billy Joel, Me, and Revia

Sirius XM fired up the Billy Joel channel again.

I'm digging it. Are you? Very singable stuff.

He gives a little history about some of his songs before they play them. I love that shit. I want to know what he was thinking, what inspired the song, how hard or easy it was to write.

His daughter - Alexa Ray -  had her own hour on the channel to present her father's songs and talk about them. She talked about New York State of Mind. One of my favorites.

Joel had relocated to the west coast to supercharge his career, but he wasn't happy out there. He's a New York boy at heart. So he hopped on a bus and headed home. He wrote New York State of Mind on the fucking bus. Could you do that? 

"Some folks like to get away, take a holiday from the neighborhood, hop a flight to Miami Beach or to Hollywood, but I'm taking a Greyhound on the Hudson River Line, I'm in a New York state of mind."

And now to The Memory.

I've talked about this before and I probably will again because it left a mark on me. 

The very first time I heard New York State of Mind was when Billy Joel appeared on the Mike Douglas Show on August 9, 1976 - so I was 22 years old. My mother was a big Mike Douglas fan - she watched the show a lot. "Dishes go unwashed and shirts remain unironed when Mike Douglas comes on" - a quote from TV Guide. The majority of the show's audience was made up of housewives.

I believe it aired at 4:00. I remember getting home from somewhere (probably college - because I attended Northeastern University I was always either working or going to school), I remember sitting down to watch the show with my mother.

I don't know if that was something I did regularly, but it could have been - Mike Douglas had some pretty cool guests - Aretha Franklin, The Rolling Stones, Herman's Hermits, The Turtles, Chuck Berry, Little Richard, John and Yoko.

Billy Joel came on, sat behind a piano, and sang the song. I was blown away. Instantaneously. I loved it.

The thing I think about a lot, is me and my mother listening to Billy Joel together. That is an odd circumstance. I don't know if she liked the song - she could of - it wasn't any of that nasty rock 'n roll, and Joel was a pretty presentable guy. But I just don't know.

I want to believe it was a special moment for the two of us, a warm and intimate moment - the kind that only music can inspire. I want to believe that she liked the song and - more importantly - that she enjoyed listening to it with me.

My emotional memories of that moment are blocked. Which frees me up to remember it any way I want to.

I choose to believe that for a few minutes on August 9, 1976, me and my mother shared a close and personal and meaningful moment.

Case closed.

Gratitude (Is Such A Lonely Word)

I need to get serious about this trendy gratitude thing.

Because there is a chance the only way I will ever feel happy is to pretend to be.

David Crosby

 "Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well-preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming "Wow! What a ride!"

Hunter S. Thompson

This is how David Crosby lived his life.

He spent 9 months in a Texas state prison for drug and weapons offenses in 1985. He had a liver transplant in 1994. He was an alcoholic and a drug addict. He had Type-2 diabetes. He had a cardiac catheterization in 2014. He was arrested for drunken driving, a hit and run accident, and possession of a concealed pistol and drug paraphenalia, also in 1985. He broke his left leg and ankle and left shoulder in a motorcycle accident in 1990. Melissa Etheridge and her partner had two kids as a result of sperm donation by Crosby. He had a son in 1962 - James Raymond - who Crosby put up for adoption. They reunited in the nineties - his son was a musician - and they recorded together and toured together.

He also had the most exquisite singing voice you're ever going to hear.

I heard about his death last night on an MSNBC news show. They did the tease - we lost a rock icon today - and just before going to commercial put up a picture of David Crosby. Involuntarily and very emotionally I blurted out "Oh no!"

All of the people I love are dying. That's where I am in life. I don't know why I am surprised every time I hear the news. Except for the emotional connection. I don't want any of them ever to die. And when they do, it brings to the surface the feelings I have for them and the feelings they inspired in me.

One of my favorite albums is Wind On The Water - 1975 - David Crosby and Graham Nash. These two sang so beautifully together. There is a song titled To The Last Whale (Critical Mass). Absolutely gorgeous; shows you where their hearts were.

One of my favorite songs is Southern Cross by Crosby, Stills & Nash. Crosby loved to sail - it was his peace. Gorgeous song, great lyrics. "When you see the Southern Cross for the first time, you understand now why you came this way, 'cause the truth you might be running from is so small, but it's as big as the promise, the promise of a coming day."

One of my favorite moments was buying Crosby, Stills & Nash - 1969 - their debut album. Loved the album cover picture - the three of them sitting on the couch in front of the house under the window. I used to just prop the album cover up as I listened to the music - the picture exuded cool. The goddamn album included Marrakesh Express, Guinnevere (gorgeous), Long Time Gone, Wooden Ships, and Suite: Judy Blue Eyes. Are you fucking kidding me?

David Crosby brought so much beauty into the world. Can you ever get enough beauty? He was a wild man with a sensitive soul. The perfect combination.

He was brutally outspoken. He spoke his mind, baby. He was unafraid. He had balls.

I saw a clip from a recent interview with him. He said he was grateful to have come out the other side of his self-destructive self. It made him appreciate life and love and family all the more.

There are no other David Crosby's to be born. He was the one, the only.

David Crosby died. But he lived a life. He gave us so much beauty. He gave us truth. He gave us himself, unvarnished and direct.

We shouldn't mourn him. He did with his life what all of us wish we could do.

But I will mourn him. My heart is broken.

Requiescat in pace, David Crosby. I love you.

And thank you.

Semi-Adult

 "It is not really sympathetic or attractive to be actively mad at your parents after a certain age. You have to let it go at some point."

Marc Maron

I am not good at letting go. If I could let go of 50% of the things that bother me, I would be successful and comfortably retired. I'm trying. I am fucking trying. Tick, tick, tick, tick.

The parents thing is a weird one. I am no longer actively mad. Maybe because they are dead, but I'm hoping it goes deeper than that. 

I had to kiss my father's corpse when he died. That was such an odd compulsion. A man that, as far as I know, was never proud of me. A man who was not in sync with my choices in life, such as they were. A man I was uncomfortable around, always.

I don't remember crying at my mother's wake/funeral, other than to cry at the fact that my father was crying.

Maybe I was actively mad until they died. My mother died in 1994 - I was 40 years old. My father died in 1999 - I was 45 years old. If I was actively mad at those points in my life, it's pretty pathetic.

Could be, though. 

Too bad I could not find some peace with them before they died. They were my parents; they gave me a hell of a life. It was all material, though - they gave me a nightmare emotionally.

I want to blame them for all my fuckups and hangups, even in 2023 - but that is ridiculous. Shit, I have been out on my own since 1978 - you think I would have learned something by now. I have been free of them both for 24 years - am I completely unable to unravel life's mysteries? Helplessly unable to recognize and eradicate my own home-grown weaknesses and shortcomings?

Marc Maron on his parents: "It is their fault that I struggle in the ways that I do in certain areas of my life, but life does go on. How emotionally crippled you let yourself be does become a choice if you are self-aware enough. I believe it is difficult to unfuck yourself completely, but at the very least you can train yourself to act better and hope that it will take."

Makes perfect sense to me. I will never be able to completely undo the damage my parents did to my psyche, but I can evolve enough to at least be able to function as a semi-adult. 

I have seen two therapists so far. The first one told me up front that we were not going to delve into my relationship with my parents. That ended up being a waste of time.

I spoke a lot about my parents, my wife, my kids, my brother, with the most recent therapist, but we didn't go deep enough. I put her on hold a couple of months ago.

WARNING! WARNING! - I am on my own right now. Not talking to a therapist. Intimate conversation with me could be life-threatening.

I think what I need is confrontational therapy - in my face kind of shit. It is defined in this way: "the process by which a therapist provides direct, reality-oriented feedback to a client regarding the client's own thoughts, feelings or behavior."

Even that sounds white-washed - what I want is someone who will punch me in the face every time I get wimpy. I need to be broken down to be built back up.

My parents are dead.

I have to bury them.

NEVER Grow Up

I got to skip work today because of the snow!

I am as light as a feather, I am as happy as an angel, I am as merry as a schoolboy. I am as giddy as a drunken man.

It never goes away.

MOVE, Motherfucker!

 I have to get rich and famous quickly.

I'm running out of time.

So Fucking Dark

 "Only a foolish optimist can deny the dark realities of the moment"

Franklin Delano Roosevelt

A Nasty Drawn-Out Death

 "Any thinking person is afraid of what they deserve."

Stanley Tucci as Jefferson Grieff in Inside Man.

This line swallowed me up.

It applies to every underachiever, which is 99% of us. We are given this gift of life, which I'm told is precious. We don't treat it like it's precious; we spit on it and kick it around and ignore it; we live as if we are immortal - then we die. In regret.

Every single one of us knows what we should have done to make our lives better. Every single one of us knows what we didn't do and what we did wrong - things that could have made us happier, things that put us where we ended up - despondent, lost, afraid, broken.

We are all afraid of what we deserve. We know what we deserve, we know it's not good, we know it's our fault.

As I conciously pissed my life away over the decades, I always fantasized that if I ever get what I really want, I will die the next day. Cruel irony. And maybe what I deserve.

Given the life I have "lived", what I deserve is a nasty, drawn-out death. I deserve to lose everything I have. I deserve to suffer. I deserve to be broken as a human being and cast to the side of the road. 

Whatever nastiness life tortures me with in the end - I created that. I set the table, I made it happen.

I am a thinking person who is afraid of what I deserve.

But I can still change that. I'm trying. I can't accept that I will die a fool; a man who laughed at life until life ripped my fucking lungs out.

But at the moment it is a believable reality.

Me and Everyone I Know

The pain is written on their faces.

The ache is deep in their bones.

Keeping My Promise

Last year I watched the US Open, Wimbledon, and the French Open.

Immersed myself in tennis and my soul thanked me for it. 

The only major I missed was the Australian Open. I vowed that I would catch it this year.

And I am. It began on Sunday, January 15th and ends on Sunday, January 29th. I missed the first few days because I am trying to save my life. I was distracted. But I dove in last night.

I missed Rafael Nadal! I missed Rafael Nadal. He lost in the second round to Mackenzie McDonald. Nadal sustained a hip injury.

The man has been hurting over the last 18 months, dealing with a bunch of injuries, including a chronic foot injury that required injections to numb the pain before every match at the French Open. He won the tournament but left on crutches. At Wimbledon, he suffered a torn abdominal muscle and had to withdraw.

He is 36 years old. He plays hard. His body may be breaking down.

That sucks. I love the man. He is the current pirate of tennis. He plays with abandon and he intimidates the shit out of his opponents. 

Is this the way it will end? god, I hope not. I need him to enjoy at least one more day in the sun. I need him to win a major. Or two. Or three.

He is always stoic when he suffers setbacks, because he knows what it takes and what the sport does to the human body. And he makes the sacrifice every time. But this time, after losing in Australia he said: "I can't say that I am not destroyed mentally this time because I would be lying."

Breaks my heart.

Nadal holds the all-time record of 22 major singles titles. He has won the French Open 14 times, which is an all-time record. He is the second man to complete multiple career grand slams.

He is a god and I need to see more of him at the top of his game.

I will devour the 2023 Australian Open. I gotta have it. The three majors I watched last year gave me endless moments of virtuosity and perfection. The Aussie Open will do the same.

I have watched enough tennis recently to develop affection and respect for younger players. I will root for them and it will make the Open even more fun for me.

Nadal will lurk in the back of my mind.

The next time he plays I will crack open a bottle of fine wine and live the good life right along with him.

Raffa.

Ground Glass

Jericho had a cheese, bacon, onion and ground glass omelette this morning.

Then he settled back to wait.

He had been thinking about his life and he decided he didn't want to think about his life anymore.

It was too painful.

And boring. There was absolutely nothing to it.

He had accomplished nothing, had no money, earned no respect, and sacrificed dignity for predictability.

He paved a long and winding road for himself that had no end except death.

No retirement, no happiness, no pride, no peace.

No fucking reward for all of his effort, misguided as it was.

He felt pain in his belly.

In the beginning there was promise. When he was younger.

But time leeches away energy and hope until you are just running in place.

Running in place even though you convince yourself you are moving forward. Delusions of humanity.

The pain intensified.

By the time Jericho realized how pathetic his life was, there were no solutions. No way out.

As time goes by, options diminish and despondency intensifies.

He wrapped his arm around his belly as he doubled over in pain.

Comes a point where you cross the Rubicon. 

A point where the energy required to live is exponentially more than a body or mind can create.

He fell to the floor, blood dripping from his mouth.

Jericho had had enough. 

He was in substantial company. Another wasted life.

Nobody could save him. He sobbed quietly in recognition of the life he had squandered.

And he died.

Henniker is Utgiagvik

The northernmost point of Alaska is Utgiagvik.

In fact it is the northermost city in the United States. Henniker is Utgiagvik.

Carol and I have been talking a lot recently about the inconvenience of living in Henniker. I introduced the concept that we should have moved the fuck away from here when our sons moved out - in 2002. At that point there was no reason to stick around. I don't know if she agrees with me, but I do know that we agree that we are so fucking sick of driving down 202 and then down 89.

Everything we do, everwhere we go, requires us to take 202 to 89. We have to drive half an hour to take a shit.

We moved here in 1986 and it was the perfect move. Keith was 6 years old, Craig was 3. We moved from Billerica, MA, which was an armpit and not a safe place to raise kids. Henniker was paradise by way of comparison.

But Henniker is a terrible place to live job-wise and convenience-wise. No jobs within 750 miles, no fucking restaurants or any other conveniences nearby. We cannot even get food delivered, which of course is a basic survival mechanism in 2023.

I was thinking about this as I drove into Concord this morning (for the 700 millionth time) to have bloodwork done in advance of a medical appointment on Thursday. I drove to Concord yesterday for work and today for bloodwork. I have to drive to Concord tomorrow for work, Thursday for a medical appointment and Friday for work.

It is 20 miles from Henniker to Concord. This week I will put 200 miles on my car between Monday and Friday. When you live in Henniker and you buy a car it is immediately depreciated 20% on day one. And then double the normal rate every year after that.

We gotta get out of this place.........if it's the last thing we ever do.................

I have been running through all the mistakes in my life since 2023 exploded onto the scene. Henniker is a big one, at least since 2002. Handcuffing me, asphyxiating me. Maybe my father was right when he told me he thought I was fucking nuts to move here.

And now it feels like we will never escape. Housing market collapsing, interest rates causing rectal bleeding.

This house went from a safe and happy place - a memory factory, to just a place to live , to a fucking tomb in coming up on 37 years. And Henniker is a big part of the reason.

I don't think that's the way it's supposed to work.

Can't You Hear Them Laughing?

So I'm driving into Concord this morning for the 700 millionth time, and I'm listening to Keyshawn, JWill and Max on ESPN radio.

I don't listen to a lot of sports talk radio, but at this point in the NFL season I like to hear what the "experts" are saying about the playoffs.

I have maintained previously in here that Keyshawn is terrible as an analyst. Got more confirmation this morning.

The man spews a lot of words, he projects a lot of attitude, but he says nothing. And he refuses to take a position. I sense that his partners are well aware of this and try to paint him into corners - force him to take a position. But he slimes his way out of it.

Part of this is an athlete's natural inclination to avoid having words and opinions shoved down their throats. I get that. But it goes a lot deeper with Keyshawn.

Apparently there are football fans out there who believe Keyshawn has a "zero football IQ." I get that feeling myself.

I was thinking about that this morning, wondering how the hell you play 11 seasons in the NFL and walk away with a zero football IQ.

Then I thought about myself as an accountant. I worked as an accountant off and on for around 25 years. I have a zero accounting IQ. I faked it so fucking much it is a miracle I survived. That is a commentary on corporate america as much as it is a commentary on me. I'm not sure I could get away with the same hustle today.

I got an accounting degree, I worked a bunch of accounting jobs, but my knowledge was the bare minimum. I could put together financial statements, I could speak the lingo, but I really did not know what I was doing.

My natural charisma, and facility with the English language (translated as my excellence at bullshitting) is what got me through.

So how can I criticize Keyshawn? I can't. I am no different than he is.

And maybe I am wrong about him. Maybe he is just a terrible communicator. Who the hell knows.

You gotta be careful when you laugh at other people.

Because a lot of people are laughing at you.

Why Not?

 I've never been drunk on a job interview.

I'd like to give it a shot.

Hands Down

 Upon further reflection it occurs to me that I am the greatest human being to ever have lived.

The Man Who Wasn't There

 "Yesterday, upon the stair,

I met a man who wasn't there!

He wasn't there again today,

Oh how I wish he'd go away"

Excerpted from a poem titled Antigonish, by William Hughes Mearns in 1899.

I stumbled upon this poem in Michael J. Fox's book - No Time Like The Future - An Optimist Considers Mortality. Fucking awesome book - read it - and put your obstacles in perspective.

MJF quoted it to underscore a particular aspect of Parkinson's. I get something entirely different from it. On top of that, the poem was supposedly written about a ghost roaming the stairs of a haunted house in Antigonish, Nova Scotia, Canada. So there you go.

That's the beauty of poetry - it means whatever your heart tells you it means.

The man who wasn't there is me. I project a version of me that is almost entirely a creation - as a defense mechanism. What you see and what I feel are two totally different things. What I feel is real; the rest is a fucking joke.

"He wasn't there again today, oh, how I wish he'd go away."

This fucking poseur isn't there every fucking day of my life; every minute, every second. He will not leave me alone. But I am sneakily, craftily, working on making him go away this year.

I am making progress. I won't get into specific details because that will trivialize the progress. Suffice it to say that, on Friday night, I somehow remained relatively calm walking into the face of the thing I hate the most about my job. And I was more "me" than usual. Which proved entertaining to people I had to deal with.

This does not mean I have changed my opinion of this menial fucking job. I haven't. I still hate it with every fiber of my being, and eventually I will free myself of its suffocating clutch. But I didn't let it kill me on Friday night. We established a sort of detente between us; fewer bodies ended up in the ditch.

"Yesterday, upon the stair, I met a man who wasn't there! He wasn't there again today, oh how I wish he'd go away."

Motherfucker haunts me in my recliner, at work, at the store, in my car, in my sleep. The irony is that I gave birth to this monster - now I want to kill him. As long as he persists, I will never be alone, and alone is a state of being I covet. 

All I can tell you is that I am working on it. Somehow, somewhere in the dark, my thinking has shifted. I can feel it. I feel results. Beating back the assault. You'll have to take my word for it, for what "my word" is worth.

As long as he persists, I will never be me.

And "me" is someone I'd like you to meet.

Powder Keg

 "Everyone is a murderer. You just have to meet the right person."

Stanley Tucci as Jefferson Grieff in Inside Man on Netflix.

There is a disturbing feel of believability to this quote. 

It comes from a series on Netflix titled Inside Man. I stumbled upon it yesterday while Carol was out and watched all four episodes - four hours of pure indulgence that felt oh so good.

I often wonder if I have what it takes to kill someone. I nurture intense anger, I have a short fuse, and whiskey releases inhibitions.

I read the quote to Carol and she said she could see me killing her. I was pissed. I could never kill Carol - I love her.

She said she could see me getting over the top angry about something with a belly full of whiskey, and taking it out on her.

She's full of shit, it could never happen. And what pissed me off is that it means she has no idea how much I love her. But that's a discussion for another day and time.

Anyway, it's an interesting quote. Is everyone a murderer? In the right circumstance, could you lash out with a knife or fire a gun or swing a lamp and kill someone?

You don't really know, do you?

What I do know is that you have a lot of anger inside you that you keep hidden from the world.

A powder keg, baby - a powder keg.

Let It Rip

 "There's two roads in life. One is you're winning or learning. And the other is that you're losing all the way to the fucking grave. Boy, you better choose quickly or life's gonna choose it for you."

Rip Wheeler, from Yellowstone.

So Busy

 I'm not getting anything done because I'm so busy pissing my life away.

Let it Rip

 "There's sharks and minnows in this world. If you don't know which you are, you ain't a fuckin' shark."

Rip Wheeler, from Yellowstone.

You Will Not Recognize Me

OK, motherfuckers - I got some time today.

Got the day off. Thank fucking Christ. 

I am trying to fill my brain up with the realization that the shit I whine about is petty. Less than petty. Is there a more humiliating word than petty? Frivolous? Narrow-minded? Pathetic? There it is. Pathetic.

The things I whine about are pathetic.

I am trying to rearrange my thinking; get my view of the world right - realistic.

Hence the admission that children with cancer are far worse off than me. I need to think about that every time I complain about how fat or tired or poor I am.

Damar Hamlin. He is another reality I need to compare myself to. The man was living his dream - living his fucking dream - and he almost died. He may never play football again. Yet he remains positive. He is now raising money for first responders and the University of Cinncinnati Medical Center in appreciation. Instead of feeling sorry for himself.

Michael J. Fox. I am currently reading his most recent book - No Time Like The Future - An Optimist Considers Mortality.

I understand he has Parkinson's - I had no understanding how pervasive it's effects are until I started reading this book. This disease makes his life a living hell - every fucking movement has to be planned out, thought about in advance and executed carefully. Or he falls. Just walking around the corner from his apartment is like executing a military maneuver.

He has fallen many times and injured himself many times. Yet he keeps on trying.

And, in 2018, he had a tumor removed from his spine in a delicate and dangerous operation. The tumor was unrelated to Parkinson's. The surgery could have left him paralyzed, but he got through it, although he had to learn to walk all over again. With Parkinson's sabotaging his movements.

And the man remains positive.

Children with cancer fight, Damar Hamlin fights, Michael J. Fox fights. Millions of people fight every day against a million different roadblocks.

My life is not even close to what I thought it would be, but it is pretty fucking comfortable. Carol has triumphed over breast cancer and a brain tumor. I am beating melanoma and prostate cancer. We are alive and kicking. We have Keith and Krista and Craig and Amanda.

My thinking is coming around. I have embarrassed myself with a few bouts of whining already in 2023, but I immediately recognize how pathetic I sound and burn that fact into my brain.

I will overcome my self-pity. I am on the road to becoming the best man I possibly can.

You will not recognize me when I get there.

I've Got A Feeling This Year's For Me And You

Carol and I went to a 10 am screening of The Wizard of Oz last Saturday.

At our favorite theatre in the world - Red River Theatres. A cinema that is non-profit, and supported through memberships, donations and people going to the movies. Very funky place.

Why did we see The Wizard of Oz? Because we are so fucking cool.

Carol loves the movie. Loves it. We have seen it 103 times. I love it too. And I gotta tell you, we loved it even more seeing it on the big screen for the first time. Spectacular.

I did not expect to see a lot of kids there. I did not think today's kids would be into the movie. I was wrong. There were lots of kids. 

The place was packed. Which is unusual, unfortunately. Young people do not go there. Because they don't show blow 'em up shoot 'em up movies. They show quality stuff. Every time we go, Carol and I reduce the average age of the audience by 5 years. It is a shame.

But watching The Wizard of Oz with a theatre full of kids was awesome. Some of them dressed up - as Dorothy, as the Wicked Witch, the Scarecrow, the Tin Man - how very fucking cool.

An elderly couple was mesmerized by a little girl dressed up as Dorothy. They talked to her and eventually took a selfie with her. They were all smiles. Very fucking cool.

There were plenty of cool people like Carol and me, people who were there without kids, but the mix was great.

When Dorothy gave the Wicked Witch a bath and she melted, the theatre was quiet - except for one little boy who said "She's dead." Hilarious.

Carol and I always sit up back - top row if we can get it. An elderly woman walked in - took a look around and said how good it was to see the theatre filled. We talked a little about how much we love the place.

It is a community that goes there.

We had a great time. We have vowed to go there more often in 2023, instead of sitting around the house getting older, slower and fatter.

Gonna be a good year.

All I Need Is a Fucking Brain

 I can't wait to get a brain so my life can be a ding-a-derry.

You'll Be Fine (We Are Told)

Allen Weisselberg is currently serving 5 months in Rikers.

Michael Cohen spent 13 and 1/2 months in Otisville Prison, and a year and a half in home confinement.

Both men worked for trump.

trump has never spent a day in prison. His flunkies always pay the price.

On one level that is so fucking wrong. trump is a scumbag piece of shit fuckwad, and deserves to spend the rest of his life in jail. And if he ever gets a life sentence I hope he lives 30 more years.

On a much higher level this grotesque inequity shines a spotlight on the truth that the rich deal with a completely different legal system than the rest of us. Even if they accumulated their wealth through illegal means. A system that has nothing to do with justice and everything to do with the influence money can buy.

This is obviously true in this corrupt country, but also true for life in general no matter where you live.

Democracy is a lie, justice is a lie.

But as long as we all behave and do as we are told and live our lives as they are dictated to us, we'll be just fine.

Do A Lot of Talking, Do You?

 "Scarecrow: I haven't got a brain...... only straw.

Dorothy: How can you talk if you haven't got a brain?

Scarecrow: I don't know. But some people without brains do an awful lot of talking......don't they?

Dorothy: Yes, I guess you're right."

My Sorrows They Learned To Swim

"It's our day off tomorrow, what d'you want to do?

How about we drown our sorrows, does that sound good to you?

Mate, that's fucking genius, I like the way you think

I've only got one question for you, where we gonna drink?

And I bet I know what you're thinking

A little bit of all-day drinking

And I know you know I'm right

Because great minds drink alike"

From Great Minds Drink Alike, by Gaz Brookfield

A Very Low Bar

 "Many forms of government have been tried, and will be tried in this world of sin and woe. No one pretends that democracy is perfect or all-wise. Indeed it has been said that democracy is the worst form of government except for all those other forms that have been tried from time to time."

Winston Churchill

The "United" States of America Is A Disease

America is a fucked up, evil, vicious, country with no soul.

I sometimes feel a little guilt when I say things like that; I know I'm supposed to say this is the greatest country on earth no matter how screwed up it is, and that I would never live anywhere else but..............

name me another "civilized" country that experiences mindless violence the way we do.

A six year old kid brings a gun to school and shoots his teacher? A six year old? Are you fucking kidding me? Where does that come from?

This country has an evil karma that permeates everything about it. It started 300 or 400 years ago, and has spread into every aspect of our lives.

Violence and hatred and prejudice and exploitation and death are just everyday occurrences in everyones' life in this country and we just accept it. Shrug our fucking shoulders, swing by McDonald's on the way home and cover our ears and say "la la la la la" so reality cannot get close to our souls.

Local authorities are figuring out how to "best get services to this young man." That's good. It's not his fault. But authorities should definitely make sure the parents are immediately sterilized, and then tried, found guilty, and executed.

They put fucked up thoughts in this kid's head, and they handed him a gun, one way or another.

I heard someone say on the radio recently that what happened to Damar Hamlin "brought the whole world together." So fucking naive. His situation brought the football world together, it brought football fans together, it brought some people outside the world of sports together, and that's it.

And it won't last.

People will forget about him, they will forget about how his near-death experience shook them up, and go back to the callousness of their lives because that is what we have been trained to do. We shake off violence and cruelty and tragedy like swatting a mosquito.

Same thing with this 6 year old kid. This is something that should shake us to the core and alter the trajectory of our lives. Or at least our thinking, and how we approach our lives.

But it won't. Remember Sandy Hook?

Mindless violence has become reality tv to us.

And America leads the way.

We used to lead the world in all kinds of important "quality of life" measurements. But that has all eroded. We are so low on most of these lists that every citizen should hang their head. Embarrassing for a country with so many riches.

But we got this violence thing down, man. We have mastered it.

And the cold-hearted indifference that makes it possible.

Bananas Is A Hilarious Movie

 All I really want from life is an endless supply of just-ripe bananas.

As Christmas dies......

 Just took down the Christmas tree.

Fuck that shit.

Back to fucking normal my motherfucking ass.

Only A Dream

A customer walked into the box office yesterday and annoyed me.

The first thing I did was spit water into his face. He did not like that.

Before he could respond, I took scissors to his hair and snipped off a chunk, leaving him looking even more ridiculous than when he walked in.

Shock left him paralyzed. Lucky for me.

I ground an Oreo cookie into his left ear. I spilled glue on his jacket, kicked him in the ass, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and tossed him out the fucking door. He fell face-first onto the sidewalk and began to cry when he felt the blood running down his face.

I laughed.

This did not really happen.

It is only a dream.

Is This Anything?

David Letterman used to do a bit on his show called "Is This Anything?"

He would present something absolutely silly and ask afterwards "is this anything"?

I woke up this morning with the following words bouncing around in my head:

Motherfucker, motherfucker, moth-er-fuck.

Motherfucker, motherfucker, moth-er-fuck.

Motherfucker, motherfucker, moth-er-fuck.

Motherfucker, motherfucker, moth-er-fuck.

Is this a poem?

Is this anything?

I will submit it to Ada Limon - current Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress. Essentially the Poet Laureate of the United States.

I will submit it to her for review, opinion and critique.

I will keep you posted.

The Inevitable Scene

The inevitable scene always arrives in Law & Order - the defendant is found guilty and dragged out of the courtroom.

The ones that really get to me are the people who never even considered they could be found guilty. A look of shock on their face as their life changes instantaneously - from whatever it was to a tiny cell, bars,  and a radical change in their sexual habits.

That moment is a metaphor for my life.

I have been pissing it away moment by moment and decade by decade with the threat hanging over my head that I will be found guilty and locked up - with no more options, no opportunity to save myself.

There is always the possibility that I will paint myself into a corner that I cannot get out of. Or that I will have a stroke or a heart attack and fucking survive it, and be forced to live a diminished life where mirrors of missed opportunities are held up to my face relentlessly. Or maybe I will be diagnosed with Stage 4 fucking cancer and given 6 months to live.

I am taking steps to beat the jailor in 2023, and to outrun the horrific diseases that will eventually win out over my fragile and defenseless body, but I'm doing it in a more relaxed manner. 

I am avoiding apocalyptic panic. Except for the job, of course. The job will kill me if I don't escape its horrendous gravitational pull soon. Immediately. Forthwith. Straight away.

You will only hear about the things I am actually doing to save myself. Not what I want to do, not what I hope to do or should do - but what I am actually doing.

I fired up the exercise machine. I worked out 5 times the week of January 1 - yeah, baby - regular exercise to coast me into the new year. Felt fucking good in body and mind. Now it's a habit. Now I remember how beneficial exercise is - more so to the mind than the body.

I am all about feeling good in 2023.

Exercised yesterday before going to work (as opposed to indulging in crushing depression), gonna work out as soon as I finish writing this.

That's all I have to report right now. But I am certainly taking an adult approach, don't you think? Trying not to lie to myself, trying not to lie to you.

Unless you like the lies. Do you want me to lie to you? Do you want to bear witness to my failures? My self-delusion? Do you want to kick me when I'm down? Pour salt into my wounds and boiling water into my eyes?

I get it. I understand the appeal. But let's try something different this year.

Can accomplishment be entertaining?

I have no idea. I have never experienced it before.

Whaddya Think About That?

So far my life - and especially my "career" - have been frighteningly similar to those of Michael Scott.

In 2023 I'm committed to emulating John Dutton.

January 3

What am I supposed to say on January 3, 2023?

Everyone is back to the grind. Hope is fading already as alarm clocks rule. Rudely.

I went to work yesterday. In vain. I asked my boss a week ago if we would be open on 1/02, to which he replied yes. After an hour yesterday he realized he was wrong - the place was closed. So I got to go home and still get paid for the day. A new year's gift.

This is how organizations involved with the arts work. No logic, no planning, no organization, no communication. The bottom line is not top of mind. Because the bottom line is subject to interpretation.

However I took a $6/hour cut in pay in January 0f 2022 to come back to this organization because it is human. It's loose. It's flexible. The city would punish me for one sneeze over the limit - you are only allowed 3 sneezes a shift. $20 to the enforcement kitty for sneeze #4. Fucking unbelievable. And the paperwork............................

That's not why I am here today.

The wheels are spinning. It's 2023. I'm not too worried. I'll figure it out. Enjoyed my faux day off yesterday which drifted into last night.

And Damar Hamlin. Heartbreaking. And tragic. 24 years old. Cardiac arrest on the field. Still in critical condition today.

The man was living his dream. After dedicating his life to the sport and working his ass off for the majority of his life. His dream could kill him. Or drastically reduce the quality of his life.

I do not know what to make of that. I don't like the message.

As I was watching the coverage, Martina Navratilova's name drifted across the ticker at the bottom - she was diagnosed with throat cancer and breast cancer.

Yesterday was January 2, 2023. Two days into a new year. People are trying to carry forward the beauty of the holidays and use it to improve their lives permanently. To make positive change.

But reality intruded like a huge and sight-blinding neon sign.

The message is obvious.

Do not ever believe that your dreams will protect you.  Still, you have to scrap and claw for every bit of happiness you can get your hands on.

And take love wherever you find it.

Which, most likely, is in the hearts of your immediate and precious family members.

To Carol

 "I've got a feeling this year's for me and you."

From Fairytale of New York, by The Pogues

January 2

 Things get very quiet on January 2nd.

January 1

 "This year I will be more thoughtful of my fellow man, exert more effort in each of my endeavors, professionally as well as personally. Take love wherever I find it, and offer it to everyone who will take it. In this coming year I will seek knowledge from those wiser than me and try to teach those who wish to learn from me. I love being alive and I will be the best man I possibly can."

Duane Allman, January 1, 1969

Waking The Fuck Up

 In 2023 I will understand that children with cancer are far worse off than me.