A Genuine Meltdown (A Sobering Omen)

Took a call from a customer at work yesterday.

A Genuine Asshole. 

Another one of these brainless pricks who insist on interrupting me every time I speak, but this guy took it to the ultimate level. He was a professional interruptor. I would not believe a human being could interrupt as frequently and as rudely as this guy did. On my own, I would have hung up on the prick, but being a Customer Service Professional I had to hang in there, as my teeth chipped from grinding them.

And my anger slowly intensified.

After an eternity of this, and after his credit card would not go through - TWICE - I cut him off, put him on hold, and put my head in my hands to keep from screaming. The Bossman decided to finish the call.

I turned around, punched the counter behind me, said "Fuck This" in front of the sweet 80 year old lady I work with, and walked out of the office.

I walked into the men's room where I knew I could not be interrupted. Pulled my phone out of my pocket - I don't know why - I am not a phone junkie. I was white hot, blurred vision mad - I don't think I knew what I was doing. Noticed that Carol had called - I called her back. She was asking me about supper - I mumbled a couple of answers in a low volume, barely under control.

Until I exploded, and quickly told her about the call and then loudly yelled "I hate my fucking life, I want to die, I want to fucking die."

Is that melodramatic enough for you?

It was a stupid, mean, immature thing for me to do to Carol and it upset her a lot. I was so very wrong to do it. I was completely out of control; it was like I was listening to a stranger scream incoherently. 

There is no way for me to make it up to her. 

I then walked into the dark, empty theatre and sat alone for half an hour before walking back into the office.

I have today off. Time to man up. I am spending a large amount of time trying to find a solution to this work/money problem. Obviously I cannot handle the situation I am in. I am a fucking psychopath filled with uncontrollable rage that any annoying situation can ignite.

I have no idea what the solution will be. 

But it will be.

Carpe Diem

 6:43 on a Sunday morning.

Just woke up in my recliner. About 4 and 1/2 hours sleep. 4 hours the night before. Makes the day a lot longer.

Expanded opportunity to carpe diem.

Too bad my grip is so weak.

A Heap of Cancer Is A LOT of Cancer

I was listening to Louis C.K. talking to Joe Rogan on Rogan's podcast.

Great conversation; some conversations are more natural than others - this was one of them.

Rogan was talking about some of the things he does to take care of his body, like cold plunges and saunas. They talked a bit more about health, and then Louis C.K. pointed out that the conversation was two privileged guys talking, that the stuff they discussed, most people do not have access to, or even the option to do.

He said: "Most peoples' lives are dragging their bodies over broken glass to collapse in a heap of cancer."

That is exactly how I would describe life.

I Got No Game

Just got off the phone with my friend Phil.

We have been friends since second grade. So around 62 years.

Phil is rich. Legitimately so and by any measure. He bought a business with a partner, bought that partner out a few years later, and made a success of the business, which he has since sold.

He lives well. He has a beautiful home in Massachusetts, a beautiful home in Florida. Drives beautiful luxury cars. Travels. Always picks up the tab when we are together.

Although he has every justification to do so, he has never been condescending to me. Never makes me feel like a lesser man. He has known me for over 60 years, knows me inside and out, knows I should have made something of myself and never criticizes me for pissing my life away.

But it is in the air.

Phil is not an obnoxious prick; the air of success naturally surrounds him. He carries himself like a successful man. He projects it without slapping you in the face with it. People react to him in that way. You hear confidence in his voice.

Over the phone, as I talk, I feel weightless. There is no heft to anything I say. The stench of failure permeates every word. There is nothing I can say to counteract the failure I have made of my life.  It hangs in the air.

He asks me what I am up to and I feel like fucking Barney Fife as I answer. What am I up to? Struggling financially, working a menial job for menial pay, because I have to. There is nothing I can say to impress him, to prove my worth, to justify my existence on this planet. He fucking knows I blew it because he knows who I really am.

I brag on my sons, I celebrate Carol's health, because they are my heart and my soul. But he is also a great family man; I see him with his kids and he has a great relationship. That is one success we share.

I want to believe he does not judge me in his quiet moments, but that is a difficult sell. His business was financial, he did my taxes for Christ sake (for free) - he knows my income typically approximated that of a 13 year old. He must wonder what the hell went wrong.

I was feeling brutally honest today and told him the reason I hate going to work is because I have to go to work, when, by rites, I should be retired. We don't typically talk about money. He said it's a good thing to stay busy, that's why he continues to work part-time (from home as a financial consultant, making impressive bucks still). He is considerate, he tries to soothe me.

I told him I could accept that justification if I had a choice. I don't.

He had to cut the conversation short. He and Betty are in Florida. They are going golfing with friends and then out for dinner and drinks.

I am not in Florida. I am not going golfing. I am not going out for dinner and drinks.

Therein lies the rub.

Putrid Corpses

Putrid corpses surround you,

at work, at play, all around you.

In your own head,

you don't know that you're dead.

Life so absurd it has drowned you.

Is Success An Adequate Response To Life?

 "Plans are one thing and fate another. When they coincide, success results. Yet success mustn't be considered the absolute. It is questionable, for that matter, whether success is an adequate response to life. Success can eliminate as many options as failure."

From Even Cowgirls Get the Blues, by Tom Robbins.

Strangely enough, I find this observation quite comforting.

Only One Person Died, So.........................

Carol and I are officially separated.

45 years in the same bed is enough - she has cast me out. Allow me to explain.

We met with the sleep study folks last Wednesday. Carol accompanied me because she knows exactly what is going on with me nocturnally, and has a wealth of information to offer. It was Carol's idea to tag along. She is a thinker. I emote.

Acccording to Carol there are many times each night that I "stop breathing". Sometimes long enough to alarm her; those are the moments when she punches me in the shoulder. Eventually she falls asleep - apparently the possibility of me dying is not unduly worrying to her.

I also choke myself "awake" quite a bit. This worries her. She says it sounds weird and dangerous. I actually think I choked myself awake one night recently before Carol came to bed, but I might have dreamed it. Nevertheless it was remarkably unsettling.

The thing is that I never remember any of this when I awake in the morning, not the choking, not the punching - none of it. So Carol was able to provide intimate details to the sleep guru. Very valuable.

Interesting conversation; Dr. Sleep provided a wealth of information, Carol provided a wealth of information, the Doc asked probing questions that resulted in me learning a lot.

She casually slipped into the conversation that only one person in their sleep studies that she is aware of actually died from sleep apnea, and that person "probably had a pre-existing heart condition." I was thrilled to learn this.

Lying on the back results in sleep apnea if you are prone to it. I can't sleep any other way now that I am an elder. The actual overnight sleep study is not until March 21. I asked Dr. Sleep if sleeping in the recliner until then would be safer and beneficial. She enthusiastically said "You bet your ass, hot shot!"

In fact she said there are three options to dealing with sleep apnea - surgery, CPAP, or the recliner. I asked if she was serious about the recliner thing; she said absolutely.

I have slept in the recliner 8 nights in a row. My recliner is dangerously comfortable. Am I sleeping "better?" Exhaustion persists. Then again I have 20 years of sleep deprivation to make up for. I fall asleep faster and stay asleep longer in the recliner. I don't feel like the sleep is any better, but March 21 is light years away - this is a good test. We shall see.................

Meanwhile, Carol sleeps alone. It must be awful for her not to have me next to her. Her rock, her provider, her protector - the man who has given her the comfort of a fat bank account with his wildly improbable success. Well, I gave her my love at least. And continue to do so.

Ultimately, I don't want a CPAP monster on my face. If recliner-sleeping proves successful, what will I do?

We have discussed it. Neither of us wants to continue with this trial separation. After 45 years of marriage we have earned the right to have a warm body within reach. It is comforting. But what if, after a couple of more weeks, I am suddenly running 5K's and deadlifting 1100 pounds?

The lure of a sudden return to youth............................

Double The Pleasure, Double The Fun

 Oh my God!!!!!!!!  today is a banner day!

Patsy just curled up in my lap as I read. Emmy Lou was already there.

I have both cats in my lap, while reading. This NEVER happens.

I hope I die when I am done reading.

Old Number Six Book Depot

On Sunday I spent 2 blissful hours at Old Number Six Book Depot in Henniker.

I am renewed.

I haven't been there in years. Many fucking years. I used to go there from time to time and browse endlessly, peacefully, forgetting that I owned a watch, and forgetting about my fucking jobs, and just being me in the one world where I am at peace - books.

Then I was seduced by Amazon with their cheap, used books and delivery to my doorstep. I forgot about Old Number Six. What a fool.

Carol gave me a $50 gift certificate, Keith and Krista gave me a $50 gift certificate and that was all she wrote. I spent $90 on Sunday and bought eleven books. Eleven. I doubt I ever bought eleven books at once ever before in my life.

The Book Depot is a throwback. An old house. Wood floors that creak. Wood stairs that creak. A wood burning stove on the first floor, a couple of electric heaters on the second. It was in the forties on Sunday and it was a tad cool in there. No problem - I dressed for it.

Aisle after aisle filled with books. Crammed with books. At times you gotta hold one book to slide another book out. Some very old (so fucking cool). Most neatly on the shelves. Others laid across the top of those books, just hanging out. You gotta investigate them to figure them out. Chairs are scattered around the store - books piled high on some chairs, other chairs are vacant, which is perfect. You feel comfortable sitting down to get a feel for a book. Books on the floor - piled high.

Step stools here and there so you can get to the top shelf. Rooms meandering off the main floor, crammed with books.

Tags - not fancy signs - tags, jutting off the shelves identifying genres. Signs tacked to doorjambs telling you what topics are covered in the rooms, telling you what topics are covered upstairs.

There is no road map; you gotta wander around. Browse. That is the thrill of it. Shit, man - I ended up with eleven books and I probably visited 30% of the store. So, of course I'm going back. I fell in love all over again.

Upstairs is it's own world. A lot of history. Divided into 20th century, 19th century, 18th century. By country and by region. China, Russia, United States, South America, Asia, Australia - fucking amazing. I wandered through upstairs just to drink it all in again - absolutely stunning how much knowledge is shelved up there.

In general, I wandered around in bliss. Started out in Literature. Checking out this shelf, and wondering if I should check out the shelves behind me or keep wandering down the side I was on. At the end of the aisle - turn right or turn left? Stick with literature or wander down to sports? Or religion, philosophy, fiction, sci-fi, biographies, autobiographies, essayists, nature, wildlife, history?

So many books. 

The Depot is owned by an elderly couple. A couple who has aged considerably since I last saw them. Selfishly I fretted over the future of the place.

I spoke to the husband when I first got there - conversation has always been a highlight of my visits. About life, about books, about authors. But his hearing has deteriorated considerably and the look in his eyes suggested a lack of focus. Broke my heart.

His wife was much more alert. I had a conversation with her on my way out. These, and others who work there, are my people; they validate my true self. Tonic for the soul, baby. 

I walked out of there with a shopping bag, a Whole Foods shopping bag, stacked high with books. I would have danced out to my car, but the bag was heavy.

Old Number Six Book Depot is a unique and special place. Old school. Dripping with personality.

A genuine treasure.

And Then There's The New

Craig and Amanda gave me a gift certificate to BAM, a bookstore in Concord.

Along with a book by one of my favorite authors - Cormac McCarthy.

The last time I was in BAM was shortly after they showed up in Concord, many years ago, and I didn't like the place. They sold books, but they also sold toys, maybe electronics, and other shit. It felt like they had not made up their mind to be a bookstore. 

They have changed.

I bought a book there with my gift certificate and was blown away. They have books. No more fucking toys, no electronics. I took a walk around and was in heaven. I browsed and covered a lot of the store, leaving a lot more to cover. I felt comfortable browsing, which is important. Nobody bothering me. The atmosphere of a bookstore is everything. If I'm not comfortable, I'm not buying.

They have discount tables. Very cool. Lots of books covering lots of topics at reasonable prices. Tables that will inspire me to buy books I would not ordinarily buy. Which I have already done.

I have been back twice since the first trip. One day I was heading in to work and was really down, really did not want to go to work, so I called in late and popped into BAM. Browsed. Bought two books and a Bruins calendar. Found myself some peace.

The employees are friendly and helpful. You don't always get that in chains. 

There was an old guy in front of me at the counter paying for his books and talking old guy stuff to the young woman behind the counter. Stuff she obviously would never agree with. I could see it in her eyes. But she was very polite and amazingly tolerant. As opposed to the way I treat annoying customers, which is to shit on them.

I bought my first book there online, but unfortunately arranged to pick it up in a store in Rockaway, NJ. Not exactly convenient. When I realized that, I called customer service, expecting a pain in the ass process, especially considering the fact that I used a gift certificate. Instead I got a woman who was helpful, cheery and efficient. Crisis averted. I was pleased.

Ultimately it is all about the books, and they have a huge inventory. I like the way the place is set up. Easy to find the topics I am interested in. Easy to find the authors I want to find. Easy to stumble across books I had no intention of buying. A quiet, comfortable place to browse.

A place of peace for me. Now I have two. Old Number Six Book Depot, and BAM. An embarrassment of riches.

Pretty sure I'll be calling in late for work a little more often now.

The First (and Most Egregious) Mistake

 How did I survive 68 years on this miserable planet in total ignorance of Jim Harrison?

I discovered him last year and I am devouring him. Like every true creative he wrote fiction, non-fiction, poetry, essays. 

He LIVED a life. And he wrote about it. And he created worlds and people in his fiction. He wrote Legends of the Fall. Did you know that? I did not.

Like many of the writers I worship, he was a drinker. I believe there is a delicate and magical connection between being a rebel - thumbing your nose at society, being creative, and booze. But you gotta be able to handle it.

I am reading a collection of his non-fiction spanning 1970 to 2015. It makes my life seem so small and meaningless.

I have to work today so naturally my humanity is suffocating. Also I returned to Heaven yesterday. I spent two hours in Old Number Six Book Depot here in my own home town. So fucking lucky to have that nirvana in my own town. So the contrast between yesterday and today is fatally disorienting.

As I read Harrison's words this morning about the mad adventures he has had (he was quite the sportsman), the states and countries he has visited, a disturbing vision from my past surfaced in my diseased mind.

I went to college at Northeastern University. In their co-op program, you attend classes for 3 months and work a real job in your major for 6 months (NU gets you the job). School 6 months, job 3 months. It flip flops. It is an excellent program. 

As an accountant my first job was with The MITRE Corporation. 1973. My desk was in a "bullpen" - a wide open room with about 20 desks. No cubicles or separators in those days. All women at the desks.

The offices were in the back of the room. All men.

Why did I not run screaming out of there on Day One? It was a horrific scene out of a science fiction movie, and anathema to my soul. I had that same job for all 5 years of my college career. My first and possibly most egregious mistake.

However, in a bizarre twist of fate, The MITRE Corporation was where I met Carol. 

Life is indeed improbable.

Muse, Why Hast Thou Forsaken Me?

 "If your daily life seems poor, do not blame it; blame yourself that you are not poet enough to call forth its riches; for the Creator, there is no poverty. Let life happen to you. Believe me: life is in the right, always. The future enters into us, in order to transform itself in us, long before it happens."

Rainer Maria Rilke

Mixed feelings about these poetic words. 

I definitely blame myself for not being poet enough to call forth life's riches (even though I do consider myself a poet - at least in my heart). If I opened up my heart, my soul, and my mind to their natural inclinations; if I allowed them to interpret life through the lens of my natural essence - I would own the fucking world. (Might still happen).

"Let life happen to you" feels contradictory to the "calling forth" sentiment. Letting life happen resulted in me pissing my life away. Life wields an obsidian knife and does not hesitate to use it.

Of course the possibility exists that I am no more than a brute, and therefore unable to fully understand Rilke's statement.

Still, I am just now learning about this Rilke dude - I like the mystery of his words.

Badasses - The Reprise

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

So much good stuff in this book I've been itching to flesh it out for you a little more. 

Ken Stabler, QB, talking about the old days - "when you played for the name on the front of the jersey, not the name on the back"

Peter Richmond, the author - "..........if this particular band of brothers could excel, that as long as professional football could include a prime-time team whose image, style and attitude ran entirely counter to the mainstream product, then Big Football didn't have to be like Big Business or conventional society. The game could be played with obvious joy." 

Raymond Chester, tight end, talking about today's game - ".........players are independent contractors. They are each mini-sports corporations." 

Duane Benson, linebacker, - "You don't have to have a criminal record to play on this team, but it really helps." 

I was a football whore back in the day. Switched team allegiances like a $20 hooker. At different times I loved the Browns, the Raiders, the Steelers, and the Vikings. Now I am faithful to the NEW ENGLAND PATRIOTS and will kneecap anyone who feels differently.

But the Raiders, man - in the 70's - fucking insane. And they excelled. They dominated in the 70's and won the Super Bowl in 1977. Have you seen their fans at games? Even today? Tells you everything you need to know about Raiders' culture.

Al Davis - the principal owner - set the tone. Everything they did was unique. He was a pretty eccentric dude and he pretty much tolerated any kind of behavior as long as they won. John Madden had the same attitude - he could ignore any level of insanity as long as they won.

In the olden times NFL teams held pre-season practice on college campuses. The Raiders pre-season centered around the El Rancho Tropicana Hotel in Santa Rosa, California. The players stayed in the hotel annex - away from the other visitors. The locals loved them because they hit up all the bars every night in July and August. These boys partied hard.

After two-a-days, the players would shower, then head out to the Bamboo Room to start the nights festivities, which were divided into two acts - pre and post curfew. They'd party, then race back to meet curfew, and sneak out again after bed-check. Madden and the other coaches knew what was going on and looked the other way. As long as you made it to practice and could function, nobody said anything.

The regular season required a little more discipline, but the hard-partying ethos dies hard.

NFL culture has changed drastically since those days. I still love it, I am addicted to it, I mainline it every chance I get. But the bad old days allowed for a lot more personality and insanity. More ragged edges. And the Raiders were the craziest of the crazies.

Today, everything is regulated, controlled, dictated, sanitized. The fucking commissioner of the league calls the game "product" for Christ sake.  He's a goddamn corporate executive with no soul, who probably eats Almas caviar while drinking Chateau Lafite 1869, when he watches games. Instead of beer and barbecue. Give me a fucking break.

Balancing superior performance with pure insanity is a difficult balance to maintain. And a worthwhile goal and lifestyle. But insanity typically sabotages achievement; most people cannot pull it off.

But the Raiders did. For a while.

I do miss those days

Dizzy

I'm a Goony Goo Goo man

With a Goony Goo Goo plan

I say Goony, you say Goo Goo!

I say Goony, you say Goo Goo!!!!!

And the world keeps spinning 'round.

Murder-Vision

Customer walked into the box office yesterday and immediately began to annoy me.

At a very high level. The kind of flaming asshole who asks questions - hundreds of them - stupid, uninformed and annoying - and never waits for me to complete my answer. Cuts me off every single time.

I fucking hate people like that. HATE THEM. I was ready to kill 15 seconds into this transaction.

If she just fucking listened to me, allowed me to educate and guide her, we would have been done a lot quicker. It got to the point where I raised my voice and started cutting her off.

If violence was a virtue in this society (and I am not sure it isn't), if I knew I would be rewarded for physically punishing this person for being so obviously fucking rude, so fucking insulting, so fucking stupid, I would have knocked her fucking teeth down her throat.

I was that mad.

But I didn't do it. The only punishment I could mete out was to not say "Thank you so much." That is the wimpy, ass-licking line I usually say to customers upon concluding a sale. It is mealy-mouthed and weak, but I am forced to make concessions upon my nature because of the nature of the job.

That was the best I could do. I mutely handed her the fucking tickets. I said nothing.

Then I tried to kill her with my Murder-Vision as she walked out the door.

Hopefully she fell dead to the street just as she reached her parked car.

Inspiration

 "It's so self-defeating to be stagnant."

Mary Ann Grayson

Not So Brilliant, Generally

Springsteen has a song called Brilliant Disguise.

Some lyrics:

"So tell me who I see when I look in your eyes, is that you, baby, or just a brilliant disguise?"

                                                                         and

"So when you look at me you better look hard and look twice, is that me, baby, or just a brilliant disguise?"

Of course the rest of the lyrics are great, they tell a story of relationships and trust and doubt and all the fragile, unpredictable shit we create for each other. But when you come right down to it, we all struggle to come up with a brilliant disguise. Of course the saddest are the ones between man and woman. But the shit we all do to get through a day is not a lot of fun either.

Most people suck at it; you can see right through the lies that most people are living. Others are accomplished at fakery; with them you have no clue who you are really dealing with. Me personally - I am fucking brilliant at it.

Had a dental appointment at 7:30 this morning - a true joy, of course, and the best way I can possibly think of to start off a new day. All the predictable phony conversation, and I slipped right into my act - the performance I have put on 687,333 times in my life. I'm surprised I don't puke as I speak - the words are so foreign to who I truly am.

"Where do you work?" "I work at CCA, a great job, a great place." I want to slit my wrists every time I go to work. Yet I am smooth and sincere-sounding when I spew the lies.

Dealt with a new dentist who felt that over the top enthusiasm was a great way to break the ice. Wrong. Her disguise was not brilliant.

As I sat in the torture chair I heard laughter. Co-workers reporting for duty, pretending to be in good moods, blowing out unfunny, forced humor to their peers. Their peers breathing back the same phony cheer. It's possible I don't hate anything worse than that. Except cucumbers. 

Employees pretending happiness to patients, patients spoon-feeding the same bullshit right back to them.

And I wondered to myself "How much genuine laughter exists in the world?"

Laughter may be the most common attempt at brilliant disguise.

So I got me a tooth that hurts. Been hurting for two weeks. Had to wait for an appointment because I am poverty stricken and uninsured. Dentists don't like people like me. And, honestly, it wasn't exactly killing me. I've been getting by on a diet of baby food and whiskey-laced oatmeal.

Two choices: 1) Another fucking crown. I already have three in my ancient mouth which, incidentally, pop off from time to time. 2) Pull the damn tooth. Crown - $1,800. Yank the motherfucker - $465.

I'm yanking it. Fuck it, I am sick of dealing with this shit. I spent $3,000 on one tooth last year - for a root canal and a crown. I have become a dullard - imagine saying yes to a situation like that? My brain is officially dead.

Didn't do anything today; it was essentially a consultation. Cost $150.

The aged are thrown to the wolves when it comes to teeth and eyes - medicare don't cover that shit. Makes perfect sense, don't you think?

One more thing that I hate myself for. How incredibly insane that Carol and I are in this position. We should be blowing $2,500/week on designer jewelry and premium booze. Instead we cannot afford dental care and eye care.

"Joey - you just walked into a wall and broke your nose! Don't you want to see the optometrist?"

"I'll call work and see if I can pick up more hours. Maybe, with a little luck, in six months I'll be able to afford to give the eye-man his pound of flesh. In the meantime I'll set the nose with a clothespin."

And I consider myself intelligent.

I Can See That

 "If you don't have enemies, you don't have character."

Paul Newman

All The Wounded, Ugly Boys

 "Deep within us, but also on the surface, is the wounded ugly boy who has never caught an acceptable angle of himself in the mirror."

Jim Harrison

Paul Newman

 "I feel like a person who has been doing prison time and is suddenly let out. He realizes he has only five or six or eight years left in his lifetime, and there's no way that'll be enough to make amends."

"An incredible part of me believes you're a free agent inside of your genetics. And that complaining that Mommy's never kissed me is a bunch of shit. But somehow I got a pretty shitty opinion of myself that had to come from somewhere."

Those quotes ring true to my own life. 

I just read Paul Newman - The Extraordinary Life Of An Ordinary Man. There are books that I read - a rare occurrence - that when I read them my stomach is slightly clenched. Because I don't want to finish the book, because the book is connecting with my very soul. This is one of those books. An honest man who bares his soul and insists that any quotes from other people in the book be brutally honest.

Why did I never have a beer with this man?

In 1986, Newman asked his closest friend, Stewart Stern, to compile an oral history of Newman's life. Newman insisted that anyone who spoke on the record had to be completely honest. Then he would work with Stern to offer his side of the story.

It was never completed. Newman died in 2008 and Stern died in 2015. Recently, Newman's family decided to finish the project.

There is so much I could say, so many quotes I could share, but I'm going to get to the part of the book that exploded my brain.

Newman speaks of himself as the "ornament" and the "orphan." The orphan is who he really is, the ornament is the person he presented to the world - shaped by his early life etc. 

He speaks of both parts of him trying to connect. And the fear that "the completion, the merging - it was hopeless and all the impressive attributes you were looking to find in the blending of the halves were simply wiped out, your worst fears realized."

"And I dread the terror of discovering that the emotional anesthetic I've lived with will never be able to let the orphan get out front and have a life of it's own."

"I've always had a sense of being an observer of my own life.".............."I have a sense of watching something, but not of living something."

"What shuts down a person?................. "It isn't that you don't care, but that you're always observing and so detached you can never get inside. The core (orphan) has never had an opportunity to fly, to discover its own curiosity. It was usurped, outranked by the decoration (ornament). The core never had a chance."

"I think I'm angry at getting old. I'm not going to age gracefully." 

He describes himself, he describes me. I am stunned by how similar our thoughts, our self-opinions, are. I am stunned that even with all his success he felt this way about himself.

My fascination with this man is not only because I feel what he felt. I mean, the man was an enormous success. I respect the life he made for himself despite his inner reservations, his inner struggle. I respect his honest approach to life, which was confirmed over and over again by friends and relatives. I respect his down to earth manner in the face of great celebrity.

Maybe the book gives me a little hope that I can make something out of my life that I can point to with pride, however small.

Ultimately I enjoyed the story of his life as he saw it, and how his friends, relatives and co-workers saw it.

He was a very impressive man.

A Fucking Burlap Sack

It's fucking Tuesday already?

February 14, 2023? Panic is welling up inside me. Happy Valentines Day.

I feel like five cats imprisoned in a burlap sack fighting to get out. Fighting each other. Fighting for freedom. Fighting to survive. You see the bag skittering across the floor, paws slapping and scraping against the sides, loud meowing, crying, wailing. Those fucking cats want out of there - badly and immediately.

I want out of my life. Badly and immediately.

What a trap. What a joke, my life is. In January I tricked myself into believing I was doing something because I lost weight and made exercise a regularity. So fucking what? What good does it do to be healthy (in my imagination) when my life is killing me?

You know how in the Westerns, the bad guys drag the good guy behind a horse, bumping torn, shredded, and bleeding in the dirt?

That's me going to work. I climb into my beast of a Hyundai and the fucking car just takes me there against my will. I scream throughout the ride. Remember Janis Joplin's iconic scream in Piece of My Heart? Imagine that happening for 30 straight minutes.

Any time traffic forces me to stop, the people who pull up next to me start to scream too. It is surreal.

But the pain is real.

I am so wound up in 2023 that I have zero patience. My life is exactly as it was in 2022. This is a nightmare of suffocating proportions. Jesus fucking Christ.

I said I have to create an explosion in February. That explosion might be my body. The pressure is intense. I envision bits of my body splattered all over the walls in mute submission.

Mute submission to this joke of a life I have slowly and craftily created. The ultimate torture chamber.

My mind. That knows what my reality could have been, but never was. Because of my own laziness and stupidity.

I so want to quit my job, quit my fucking life, park my ass on a barstool and drink. I like to drink. Why shouldn't I enjoy myself?

But I won't. I have committed to slugging it out this year, and slugging it out is what I shall do.

Sweet Gibberish

Jacaranda hoo hoe

Whatcha gonna do Joe?

Prob'ly blow my life up,

Strive to reach the golden cup.

But will you pay a price Joe?

To do this to your life, though?

The price will be so fucking sweet, 

That I'll be dancing in the streets.

Peace of mind and strength of soul,

Piles of cash to make me whole.

I'll love myself and love you too,

I'll sing and smile, no longer blue.

All of this I can achieve,

Fuck you if you don't believe.

Why Not?

 I have no intention of moving to Saskatchewan any time soon.

Sensitive (Not Delicate)

"Scott was an incredibly sensitive child. And I don't think incredibly sensitive people fare well in this world."

Jackie Witte - Paul Newman's first wife on their son, Scott

I am an incredibly sensitive child.

Thinking About Death (For a Change)

Read an article by Jean Stimmell titled The last hurrah.

He references an article in Atlantic Magazine written by an oncologist and bioethicist entitled "Why I Hope to Die at 75." He talks about the obsession with extending life through exercise, healthy diets, vitamins, supplements etc. The killer observation is that over the last 50 years "health care hasn't slowed the aging process so much as it has slowed the dying process."

Painful but true.

A turn of the century medical text says short illness and quick death help "the old man escape those cold gradations of decay so distressing to himself and to his friends."

Stimmell has survived four cancers and says he is "reluctant to submit to more heavy-duty medical treatment in the future because of the additional toll it will take on my compromised body....."

Here's my point.

I am working hard to lose weight and get in shape, probably for the last time. Because if I lose the weight and then gain it back.............I am a fucking idiot. Because I am old. It gets harder and harder, baby.

I have been exercising regularly for a month and a half now and I feel good..................psychologically. But I don't feel any healthier. Am I pissing in the wind? Should I give up and live on dark chocolate and whiskey? It's tempting.

I wake up tired. I have to force myself to exercise every single time. I never feel energetic enough to do it, but I am obsessed with getting unfat. Sometimes it feels like I won't even get through the routine. My legs feel like lead on the exercise bike, and my arms get wobbly when I do phony baloney strength shit.

Of course I am working against a couple of negativities. 

1) Exhaustion. I sleep like shit, and over the past year it feels like exhaustion has become cumulative. I am a fucking zombie. Next week I am participating in a consultation, prior to doing a sleep study thingy. I am praying that this eventually leads to me getting "normal" sleep. 

I am hopeful because I recently had a discussion with an old friend of mine who suffered from sleep apnea. His symptoms were exactly what mine are. He now uses a CPAP, which he highly recommends.

Honestly, I was thinking if the sleep dudes recommended CPAP I was going to politely blow them off and stock up on quaaludes. After talking to Gary I will give CPAP a try. He said it took about 3 weeks to get used to it, but now he sleeps like a baby and wakes up refreshed. WHAT?????????? I so desperately want to wake up in the morning possessing energy. 

2) Hormone therapy. I am still feeling the effects of that. Think about it - my testosterone level was reduced to almost zero for two fucking years. That's gotta fuck you up. Plus I'm sure the therapy affected other shit within my body that I am not even aware of. I know I am still feeling the effects because I am still getting hot flashes. I AM NOT A WOMAN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Exhaustion, hormone therapy and.............age. This is what I am really getting at.

What if I lose the weight, sleep better, overcome the effects of hormone therapy and still feel eternally tired? Because I am old. Worn out. Rusted. That would fucking suck.

What if I cannot overcome the cold gradations of decay?

A dark future awaits.

Don't Kill The Music

The local board of selectman voted not to fund the Summer Outdoor Concert series going forward.

Motherfuckers.

Why is it these insensitive louts always go after the arts? The arts are the only thing that makes life worth living. All else is shit.

The series is partially funded by the town and partially funded by donations. Now the whole thing is on the shoulders of the town folk. It would not surprise me to see the town folk anty up. We will be donating.

Carol and I dabbled in the concerts over the years. A couple here, a couple there. But we made it a"thing" in 2022. We attended maybe five of them. Six? I'm not sure - I'm not good at math.

We made sandwiches. We brought water. I was tempted to sneak a little whiskey in with me but I decided - in the spirit of the event - to behave myself (not an easy thing for me to do). Brought our chairs. Set up on the lawn and just basked in the vibe. The crowd. The music. The magic of a summer night.

It was fucking spectacular, and it was an easy and comfortable night out that we looked forward to.

Now these shortsighted, selfish assholes want to take it away from the people.

Let's face it - the average age of the crowd is about 104. And that factors in the younger folk - of which there are many - many with kids. So it's a crowd made up predominantly of retired people, people who appreciate a pleasant night out, people who do not take the concerts for granted, people who cannot afford to and don't have the energy to go to TD Garden for a fucking concert.

Most of the music is spectacular. The rest is very good. So this is not a joke. This is not Grady, South Carolina from Doc Hollywood. This is not a fucking squash festival. This is quality stuff.

And a quality night out. Summer nights - who does not want to be out on a beautiful summer night? People with dogs, kids, people eating ice cream and pizza, people dancing, people singing.

I think the concert series will survive. I think people will step up. It is too special to let it die. 

I think none of the selectman who voted against it should be allowed to attend.

I Could Handle That

 "Naturally we would prefer seven epiphanies a day and an earth not so apparently devoid of angels."

Jim Harrison

As My Bruins Addiction Deepens (Tangential Information, Random Thoughts)

I have begun watching short programs about The Bruins.

Behind the B. I like that a lot. Cameras in the locker room, the boardroom, on the ice at practice - good stuff. I like anything that gets inside the sport and allows you to see the athletes as human beings.

Denis Leary narrates the show. Perfect - he is a local boy and a hockey fanatic. With personality.

When I listen to him, when I hear his voice, I think "You know exactly what you are getting." His voice immediately conjures up his persona. Which of course led me to wonder "What do people think when they hear my voice?"

There's really nothing to back it up. No singular accomplishment that explains me, no specific course that I followed in life that defines me.

Maybe my voice comes across as ethereal. Like a wisp in the wind. People are looking around thinking"I sense a presence here, but it is not solid; it's nothing I can put my finger on. I think I hear something, more than that, I think I feel something, but I have no word to describe the sensation."

This might explain the blank stares I get whenever I make what I consider to be grand pronouncements.

In any event, 2023 is dedicated to filling in the silhouette. I pity the person I'm talking to when it fully manifests.

People do not take kindly to unexpected and shattering occurrences.

Time.....................

 "........but how much time does he have left in his life to worry about mistakes?"

From Stone Mattress, by Margaret Atwood

Meaningful on multiple levels.

All I Ever Wanted

 "..........all she ever wanted was to be protected by layer upon layer of kind, soft, insulating money, so that nobody and nothing could get close enough to harm her."

From Stone Mattress, by Margaret Atwood

This is all I ever wanted. But I never tried hard enough.

Money is the great liberator. 

When you have money, you don't have to cower in fear every month praying that your social security check hits. You don't have to worry that a major home repair will wipe out your savings, and that Fancy Feast Gourmet Cat Food will become the staple of your everyday diet. Thank God it's gourmet. You don't have to work a dehumanizing job into your seventies just to be able to pay the fucking rent. 

When you have money, you are nobody's fool - you are master of your own fate.

The position Carol and I are in is ridiculous. And humiliating. If I did nothing, if I changed nothing from here on out, we would eventually become a financial burden to our sons. And, finally, a medical burden.

I will never allow that. But the pressure is on.

What the fuck am I going to do? I am an ancient; the odds are stacked against me.

I'm working on it. You won't get the details until I actually do something about it.

Procrastination kills. 

Over the years, as I eked out an embarrassing "living", I would think to myself "You better figure out a way to save up some cash, shitboy, or you will end up broke, downtrodden, fucked and alone." I knew it. I was aware of it. That reality lurked in the dark corners of my mind like a killer with knife raised to strike.

But I never did anything about it. Whiskey is a decisive and efficient problem-solver. I never found a way to put by some extra cash. I never made the effort I was capable of, to improve our financial position. And now we pay the price.

Scrooge - "Are there no prisons? And the workhouses - are they still in operation?.........................I help to support the establishments I have mentioned......they cost enough; and those who are badly off must go there."

Gentlemen: "Many can't go there; and many would rather die."

Scrooge: "If they would rather die, they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population."

Sounds cold, but that is exactly how our society operates. Nobody is hungering to rescue me, nobody gives a damn if I die penniless and am buried in Potter's Field.

This is as it should be. Everybody has their own problems, and life is a motherfucker.

As my mother used to say to me, tenderly, every time life drove me to tears - "You made your own bed, motherfucker - now lie in it."

She was a sweet woman.

Trending Towards Idiot

 "Almost everybody is born a genius and buried an idiot."

Charles Bukowski

Hobo

I want to be a hobo

To escape and ride the rails,

I want to be a hobo

And eat beans for every meal,

I want to be a hobo

And wear dirty ragged clothes,

I want to be a hobo

Pray to just be left alone,

I want to be a hobo

Kill my life that's oh so dull,

I want to be a hobo

Dodge the bulls and save my skull,

I need to be a hobo

Surge adrenaline and fear,

I need to be a hobo,

Get the fuck right out of here.

Red

 An artiste friend of mine once told me: "When you paint your house red, you paint your house dead."

Questions

 "Am I where I wanted to be? Did I get here easily? Did I make a sacrifice? Did I take a sharp left when I should have turned right? Am I where I wanted to be? Can I sell off all of my gold? Can I trade it in? Will I wait for love or settle for somebody to hold?"

From the song Where You Want To Be, by Darren Hayes

Life questions, man - I got nothing but questions.

Get Moving, Loser!

Someone recently asked Alfred, Lord Tennyson "What is the worst thing Joe can do with his life?"

He immediately replied "to rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!"

I need to get my ass in gear.

Are You Fucking Kidding Me?

 When you take the day off from work because of weather so cold it is described as "generational cold", and your boss questions you........................you know that is a job you gotta leave in the rear view mirror.

The temperature right now where I work is 6 degrees, with a wind chill of -15 degrees. If I was foolish enough to go in I would get out at 6 pm. The temperature at 6 pm is projected to be -4 degrees with a wind chill of at least 20 below zero, more likely 25 or 30 below.

I should put myself outside in all that shit for a job where not one person will walk into the office and there will be a total of three phone calls? You cannot be serious.

All the administrative people will be "working from home".  What am I?  A sacrificial lamb?

I don't give a damn who did go to work today, they shouldn't be there - the fucking place should be closed. This is not an essential business and this weather is dangerous. Every weather report includes a Wind Chill Warning -  "Dangerously cold wind chills today through Saturday." The wind chill is projected to go as low as 40 degrees below zero.

We are not talking about a hospital here - we are talking about a fucking entertainment venue.

Priorities do get confused, don't you think?

Jesus fucking Christ.

Most Mechanics.....................

Had my car inspected today.

Of course I have nothing to worry about - I drive a 2020 Hyundai Elantra muscle car bought brand new. This thing is a beast.

The mechanic we have been going to for 36 years sold his business last year. An uncomfortable moment.

When you have a 36 year relationship with a mechanic, you trust him and he trusts you. That relationship is more important than your marriage. 

Most mechanics want to rape you and beat you and illegally obtain your bank account numbers so they can bleed you dry financially before they set you up in a criminal scam that ends up with you serving a life sentence with no possibility of parole.

So now we have new guys we gotta deal with.

I picked up my car an hour ago and had a "guy" conversation with a couple of "guys" - strangers to me.

It seemed to go well, but when I got home I had the typical internal debate - was that me talking or was that Performance Joe talking?

The conversation revolved around pub food, pub atmosphere, beer etc. A conversation like that is in my wheelhouse - give me a comfortable bar, cold beer and meaningful whiskey, good food, a cool bartender and an easy-going waitress prone to genuine laughter, and I'm not coming home for a couple of days.

Still, I could have been performing. But sometimes I think that in certain situations Performance Joe is actually Real Joe. I mean it has to happen once in a while, right? The fucking odds have to kick in every now and again.

This felt like one of those situations. But.............I am pretty fucking smooth at coming across as"Regular Guy". Fun bar guy, beer drinking straight-shooter guy, just a working stiff paying the bills and cutting loose every once in a while guy.

So I'm not sure. 

Analysis Paralysis. That's my disease. I am so confused about who I really am after over 50 years of Oscar-level performances, that I overthink every situation.

That's where whiskey comes in. At least up until last October. Now I am in no-man's land, alone with my thoughts and no anesthetic.

Tough deal. I'll figure it out. 2023 is coming along all right. Lost a few pounds, got the exercise thing going real regular-like. I even applied for some phoney baloney job today, just to see what happens. It's an experiment; kind of like jamming a square peg into a round hole just to create a result. Any result.

Maybe that conversation went ok today. Maybe I have two new friends.

When I got home I changed all our bank accounts and rehearsed an alibi with Carol.

I'm not a fucking fool, you know.

America In a Nutshell

 "The merest smell of profit would lead us to gut any beauty left, there was no sentimentality involved. We had been doing so since we got off the boat and nothing would stop us now."

From Wolf, by Jim Harrison

You Rascal You

Remember Louis Prima?

I mean, how could you not, right? Actually I am faking it. I knew his name and nothing else about him. Until this song came into my life - (I'll Be Glad When You're Dead) You Rascal You.

Louis Prima was born in 1910 and died in 1978. He was a singer, songwriter, bandleader, and trumpeter. Much like myself.

He had a pretty goddamn successful career. Made lots of money and had a dedicated following. And he was Italian!, which is magic in and of itself.

Italians know how to eat, how to have a good time, how to cook, how to drink - they are passionate and creative and expressive and emotional and short-tempered, they know how to party; they know how to live, baby.

Prima was married five times and had six children. He led big bands, he played in jazz combos, he played Dixieland and Swing. Over the course of his career he worked out of New York City, California, and New Orleans. Recorded a bunch of records. He also acted in a bunch of films. He was a busy dude and very popular.

I was reading a James Lee Burke book and he quoted a lyric from (I'll Be Glad When You're Dead) You Rascal You: "I'll be standing on the corner plastered, when they bring your body by". I was immediately intrigued. Burke did not mention the name of the song, but I found it.

There seems to be two versions of the song, but the sentiment is equally touching in both versions.

Stuff like: "I trust you in my home, you wouldn't leave my wife alone...................I fed you since last fall, then you got your ashes hauled........you know you done me wrong, you done stole my wife and gone...............I'm gonna kill you just for fun, the buzzards gonna have you when I'm done, I'll be glad when you dead, you rascal, you."

I am particularly fond of the "ashes hauled" line.

The man was talented, very successful, and he had a sense of humor. And yet most people today never heard of the guy. 

It is such a weird thing that we are imprisoned in limited cultural circumstances by virtue of the time period we live and die in. I mean, you can do the research and get turned on to stuff from the past, but most of us are too busy trying to find the best deal on a set of steel belted radials to find time for research.

Louis Prima made his mark, baby.

Twice?

 Tom Brady has retired twice.

I am 69 years old. I am still working.

I have truly fucked up my life.

Perfect

 "Poetry, at its best, is the language your soul would speak if you could teach your soul to speak."

Jim Harrison

January - A Reckoning

I exercised 19 days in January.

That's pretty damn good. A good start. Let me break it down.

The way I see it, I have 6 days a week available to me for exercise. Mondays don't count. On fucking Mondays I gotta roll out of the house by 10:45, which does not give me a lot of time for back squats and long-distance running. Every other day I either have off, or go in late enough to squeeze in some exercise.

I am never going to work out 6 days a week consistently; I am human - I deserve a break. So I consider 5 days a week to be the ultimate goal.

Using that logic, there were 22 days available to me to exercise in January. I used up 19 of them. That's pretty fucking consistent. I feel good about it.

BREAKING NEWS: On January 4th I weighed 198 pounds. Today - February 1st - I weigh 194 pounds.

I lost 4 pounds in January.

That is not huge but it's a damn good start.

My brain being what it is, I'm tempted to say that the first month is always easiest and I'll probably only lose another 1/2 ounce by December BUT.........I am fighting against that thought process in 2023.

All I am going to say is that I put in almost maximum effort in January and it paid off. I am going to put in maximum effort in February and see what it gets me. I did exercise today.

But now I have to get really serious. I accomplished nothing else in January, nothing of any major importance - like escaping this mind-numbing, soul-sucking job and gaining some measure of financial independence, for one.

I got a lot of work to do. A goal for February is to create a satisfying explosion in my life.

But for now I am happy with January results.

It's a damn good start.