Cicely Here I Come

I'm moving to Alaska folks.

Cicely, Alaska to be precise.

I know, you're saying "For Christ sake, Joe - you hate the fucking cold! Why move to Alaska? Why not Ibiza, where you can party your ass off and be warm year-round?"

Valid point.

As I was mixing up a bowl of oatmeal this morning (to be subsequently graced with slices of banana), I was contemplating the straight jacket that I wear. It occurred to me that all I really want out of life is to be free to be quirky.

All the characters on Northern Exposure were quirky. Delightfully so. But here's the conundrum - did they wear their quirkiness on their sleeve before they arrived in Cicely, or did Cicely bring their quirkiness to the surface? The first two people I should consult before I go, are Holling Vincouer and Chris Stevens. They are both philosophers in their own unique ways; talking to them would blaze an honest path to the truth.

I suspect that Cicely gives life to quirkiness because it is a strange environment - harsh, unforgiving and isolated. You can't live in your fucking recliner and have life delivered to you; you gotta fight for it, go out and get it, plan ahead, improvise. You gotta be natural to deal with that, you gotta be you. Phoniness ain't gonna cut it in Alaska. 

Besides, the people there are accepting, everybody has made a move from "civilization" to the wilderness for a reason; they welcome oddballs with open arms.

Even if Holling and Chris counseled me not to make the move, I would go anyway. I'm desperate for quirky.

But it would be a blast to talk to them.

Editor's Note: 

1) YES, I understand that Cicely, Alaska doesn't exist, give me a fucking break. But fantasy is always better than "reality", baby. 

I would give anything to sit down at the bar in The Brick, have Holling serve me a beer and philosophize, do a couple of shots with Chris, and dig on the sheer joy of witnessing a conversation between Shelly, and Ed Chigliak. It would be light years beyond the boring people I experience on a daily basis.

2) Isn't oatmeal amazing? You empty the packet into your colorful, Mexico-themed bowl, boil up some water and, presto chango, you got yourself some breakfast. A healthy breakfast, just like that. Freeing you up to mow a double cheeseburger, fries, and two beers for lunch.

Pain & Fear

 "People don't know pain and fear. I know pain and fear. Pain and fear are my friends. I'm watertight. The weak link is you.....Richard had always thought that he knew pain and fear; but he didn't - not yet. Pain and fear were waiting for him, as they waited for everyone. A whole hospice of pain and fear, patiently waiting."

From The Information, by Martin Amis

Life As a Free Floating Radical

This morning I envisioned myself as a free floating radical.

A living thing that is drifting through life without conviction. Most of us live this way.

No purpose, no goal, other than to get up, eat breakfast and do whatever is expected of us that day. One, maybe two days a week we get to do what we want to do, but we never have the money to really do what we want to do, so we watch TV and munch on Cheetos Cheese Puffs. There are hundreds of millions of orange fingered people shuffling through life.

I am fascinated by people who have a purpose in life. People who wake up and know exactly what they are going to do and exactly why they are going to do it. Must be a good feeling. I believe that is called living. 

I was sitting in my recliner having these thoughts this morning, in that odd moment when I am done reading and Carol has not come down stairs yet. I often sit in silence and think, or whatever passes for thinking in my embattled and diseased brain. When Carol does come down she'll often say "How you doing, Puddy?" Remember Puddy on the plane with Elaine?

Day off, gotta save my life. But do I really? As a free floating radical, maybe the focus has to be on limited happiness. I probably won't save my life today, and I have to work tomorrow, so I might as well have fun today. But how does that work?

I'm not sure I know what fun is anymore. I don't run in to it often at all. I think I know what happiness is, but is happiness a long-term affliction? Can happiness be on again off again? Happy on Tuesday, unhappy on Wednesday, happy on Thursday, unhappy on Friday? Or is happiness a stable state that you achieve when your life is in order?

Does fun lead to happiness? Or is fun more like an injection of heroin that has to be repeated over and over again as a defense against life, but makes no lasting contribution to happiness?

That's an awful lot of questions. Can't handle this right now.

I think Puddy was on to something.

The Gold Watch

Used to be, back in the olden days, that you'd work 45 years for a company, retire, and they'd give you a gold watch.

I don't think that happens anymore. Which is a good thing.

Because if you think about it, that gold watch is really a Suicide Watch.

Ambition Always Falls Short

 The silence was the thing Angelina could not ignore.

Since her husband died, the house went quiet.

He sneezed a lot. Explosively. Then he blew his nose. Loudly. At least twice for every sneeze. She spent more on Kleenex than she did on food.

Still, her memory of the sneezing was oddly fond.

It was the sadness, so intense, so deep, that she did not miss. It permeated everything, contaminated their marriage, and most likely, killed him. 

He was never happy. Never. He hated his life with a singular focus and manic intensity.

Thought of himself as a writer, and that opinion tortured his every waking moment. Because he did nothing about it. Except to dream. As a result he spent his life working menial jobs and slowly murdering his soul.

He had all kinds of unrealistic plans for creating the life and success that he coveted. But ambition always fell short.

He died of a massive heart attack, as you might expect. The sadness built up inside him until there was room for nothing else. Until his heart exploded.

Angelina took in the silence for the thousandth time since he died. She sighed loudly. Sadly.

Settled on the couch under a blanket, with her two precious cats in her lap. Dialed up Law & Order on tv, and took up her crocheting.

He died a stranger to the man she married over forty years ago.

Still, she missed him.

A Picture Window

John lit a cigarette and gazed out the living room picture window.

Now that his wife was dead he could smoke in the house. He could do anything he wanted to do. The ironic thing is he didn't feel like doing much of anything. The rebellion he expected to bloom faded to a dull acceptance.

The grass was coming around, although they..............he, didn't have much of a lawn. And he didn't care. Never gave a damn about a well-tended lawn or any other fucking thing that defined responsible home-ownership.

There was life out that window, though. Squirrels, chipmunks, stray cats and unrestrained dogs. The dogs shit on his lawn. John didn't care about that either. It was not like he would be having any family barbecues out there. Or friends over for casual visits. The closest he would get to the front lawn was a recliner on the screened-in porch, and he was fine with that. The recliner, a bottle, a cigarette. Small pleasures for a narrow, diminishing life. Justified.

Birds. He loved the birds. Not originally, but he grew to appreciate them. His wife kept the bird feeder alive and the birds visited in gratitude. He knew they were grateful because they sang for their supper.

Such pretty sounds.

And the colors. Not always exceptional. Birds, like people, could sometimes be boring. Then out of the blue, a bright red bird. Or bright yellow. He didn't know one bird from another, but he knew what made him feel alive. He knew that it made him feel good. 

When her heart stopped beating, his life stood still.  His shoulders became stooped, and would be for the rest of his life.

He wondered how much time he had left. 

It was ironic that he was the one left standing. Ridiculous. He deserved to die. He was darkness, she was light. But it went the other way around. The emotional pain was overwhelming. And the guilt.

Feeling guilty about being alive. There is something perverse in that.

A hummingbird caught his eye. Hovering at the feeder, the feeder that she also maintained. Such delicate, magical birds. Tears rolled down his cheeks. Not a flood, but enough to trigger the safety valve of his emotions.

His heart wouldn't burst today.

He lit another cigarette.

Tears Solve Nothing (What a Let Down)

 "Cities at night, I feel, contain men who cry in their sleep and then say Nothing. It's nothing. Just sad dreams. Or something like that...................... Women.........................will wake and turn to these men and ask, with female need to know, What is it? And the men say, Nothing.  No it isn't anything really. Just sad dreams."

From The Information, by Martin Amis.

If You're Bored, Then You're Boring

 I am bored with myself.

I've got to start making stuff up.

Wine

 "The simple act of opening a bottle of wine has brought more happiness to the human race than all the collective governments in the history of earth."

Jim Harrison

Run Away and Hide

Wow, man - another "new" author for me to devour.

Recent discoveries - Jim Harrison, Margaret Atwood, Larry McMurtry, and now.................

David Baldacci.

I know, they've all been around forever. What do you want from me? I am reclusive by choice - I don't want anything to do with any other humans (assuming I'm human, which is quite a stretch). So new information from outside contacts is limited.

Brief aside: Obviously every human sucks, every human is narrow-minded and selfish. The only way I can survive human "interaction" is to limit communication to the barest minimum. I started this a while back and was somewhat happy with the results. I try not to offer information about my life, and I try to limit responses to peoples' comments to the fewest possible words.

But I have found that being human is an aching thing - I keep slipping and talking about my life................and getting ignored, no connection, no empathy, as the idiot listener only wants to talk about themself, and doesn't give a good goddamn fuck about me. Not no way, not no how.

So fuck 'em. Yesterday I really pushed it - I suppressed any natural instinct to add anything to a conversation. When my mind made a connection and prompted me to speak, I didn't. And I refused to give the speaker what they wanted, which was validation of their worth (fucking joke). I didn't agree or disagree. 

It was fanfuckingtastic. Many awkward silences, which is what people deserve. Awkward silences, embarrassment, reproach, rejection. When I perfect this approach, I will be happy.

Back to the matter at hand: Obviously I was aware that McMurtry and Baldacci existed, and Atwood became knowm to me due to the hype over A Handmaid's Tale on tv. Jim Harrison walked the earth without my knowledge.

McMurtry died in 2021, Harrison in 2016. Bummer.

The sheer number of "new" books that are now available for me to consume is staggering. And who the fuck could have predicted I'd find tasty "new" authors to read at the tail end of my life? You do settle into a groove, you know. It is comforting, limits conflict, and minimizes anxiety. New things are bad.

These authors could save my life. As I slip into the worlds they created, I will forget all of my problems. I will eliminate anxiety and find peace of mind. Self-loathing will fade away and I will love myself. I will naturally find a way to earn mountains of money and buy security with it. I will finally retire.

BULLSHIT! Nothing can save me. NOTHING!

All I can do is run away and hide.

Suffering

 "Every great city has its human driftwood, its wrecks of men cast up by the tide of misfortune and despair. Hungry of body and starved of soul."

Charles M. Pepper

Frankenstein

Holy shit, mon - did the overnight Sleep Center, sleep apnea evaluation Tuesday night.

How bizarre, how bizarre.

Hooked up to sensors like Frankenstein on the table. One on top of my head, one on the back of my head, one behind each ear, two on each cheek, two on the left lower side of my back, two on the right lower side of my back, two on each leg, an oxygen thingy up my nose and an oxygem sensor clamped on a finger. A seatbelt kind of thing wrapped around my waist and down from my shoulder to keep all the goddamn wires from asphyxiating me.

I was wired for sound, baby.

I didn't think I could sleep like that.............but I did. Thankfully I am permanently exhausted. I woke up 3 or 4 times, but technically it qualifed as sleep.

The room was not luxurious as I had hoped. No complimentary champagne or chocolate, no porn or hookers, the room and the bathroom were sparse, but the bed was more comfortable than my own. And we paid $150,000 for our mattress.

I reported for duty at 8:15 pm. My plan was to watch the Bruins and then go under. But the sleep tech wired me up immediately, then said I could sit around for a while before she plugged me in  to The Machine. Seemed kind of stupid to me; I had a thousand wires hanging off of my body. And I was yawning already. So I skipped the Bruins and was in bed by 9:00.

Sleep was weird. Weird dreams too. One dream involved Hunter S. Thompson, another starred a dolphin and a whale. Not kidding.

The intercom system is slick. I say "Hello" and the tech responds immediately. Woke up at 3:50 am, had to go to the bathroom. They expect this. The wires all run in to a handheld box which gets plugged into The Machine. So it's easier than you think to get to the bathroom. 

Except you have a thousand wires hanging off your body, and you have to hold the handheld console. Of course there is nowhere and no way to put the fucking thing down. Apparently shelf space is at a premium in sleep centers. So you're doing everything one-handed and praying you don't short-circuit the wires.

I walked out of the bathroom and asked if she had all the readings she needed. They need 6 hours, they had 6 and 1/2. She said yup, I said "I'm out of here." On the road at 4:15 am.

I asked if anything weird happened. She said I gave her plenty to talk to the Doc about, but wouldn't give me any details. I woke up choking during the dolphin and the whale dream and was a bit freaked out. That's all I remember.

I love driving at 4 in the morning. Strange time of day. It's dark. No one's around. I feel safe. 

The heartless fucking banker is not gonna call to tell me he's foreclosing on my house, the bossman is not gonna ask me to cover someone else's ass, Dr. Feelgood is not gonna tell me I have Stage V cancer and I am effectively already dead.

So that's my story. It wasn't a stressful night but it was a very weird night. Felt good to walk into the house at 5 am (after cruising through Dunkin' Donuts) and get enthusiastically greeted by Emmy Lou and Patsy, who were so very happy to see me. Got comfortable, settled into The Recliner with coffee and a donut, a book, and Emmy Lou, and contemplated the disorienting weirdness of aging.

I would have talked to Carol about it, but she was still in bed. 

She is extraordinarily lazy.

Looking For Advantages

 One advantage to being 69 years old is that it is a waste of time to make long term plans.

Long term planning takes time, requires effort and focus, and burns energy - which I do not have a lot of in reserve.

This frees me up to apply myself with frenzied abandonment to short term planning.

Today is the focus. I must conquer today. There is nothing else.

For starters, I gotta get my hands on some peppadew peppers. Have you tasted these amazing vegetable sensations?

Fucking delicious.

Unbidden

 Two unwelcome thoughts just popped into my head unbidden.

Everyone is rich except me.

I am living a boring old man's life, but I'm not a boring old man.

Much work remains to be done.

If I Was Ever Going To Kill A Bird....................

it would have been yesterday morning.

At 10:45 am I was slouching down the path to my (temporarily) mid-size crossover luxury SUV Acura MDX, head down, shoulders slumped, to begin the commute to HELL/job.

I was sandwiched between two snow banks of immense height. It was cold. The path is one shovel-width wide.

After the fucking blizzard, the weather got warm for a bit. The path became a river of mud. We would sink into mud up to two inches high on our fucking shoes. We were shunned by polite society.

Then it got cold. The path froze. When I walked it yesterday it was like stepping on the craters of the moon. In addition there was plenty of ice. So I was walking like a 90 year old man - tiny, tentative steps to avoid twisting my ankle in the craters or slipping on the fucking ice.

As I got close to my (temporarily) mid-size crossover luxury SUV Acura MDX, a bird over my head began to sing. Merrily. As if it was really spring.

If I had a gun, that bird's feathers would have fluttered to my feet and I would have kept the biggest and the prettiest as a souvenir.

I am not a country boy and don't know the difference between a buzzard and a sparrow.

But I'm pretty sure this bird was a mockingbird.

What Do You Dream About?

 "I suppose we all, even nuns, dream of a life other than the one we actually live on this indifferent earth."

From Anything For Billy, by Larry McMurtry

Poly what????????????

Tonight I am participating in polysomnography.

That's a $20 word for sleep study.

I am scheduled to arrive at the sleep center at 8:15 tonight, booted out by 6:30 tomorrow morning. Too bad there are no bars open at 6:30 am.

I imagine I'll look like Frankenstein. Hooked up to sensors to measure brain waves, oxygen level in my blood, heart rate and breathing as I sleep. Assuming I can sleep with all that shit attached to my body.

As a man with a negative bank balance, tonight will be like a luxury spa experience. Full size bed, tv, private bath, linens, towels and soap. The Bruins are playing. Perfect.

They suggest I bring two-piece sleepwear - t-shirt and shorts, or pajamas. I suppose they need easy access to the sensors. 

They are in for a rude awakening. For the past month I have been sleeping in my recliner wearing three sweatshirts and under three blankets. If they don't crank the thermostat to 85 degrees, there's gonna be a ruckus. They'll probably tack on a surcharge.

Another exciting chapter in my life. I am actually hopeful that this will lead to a solution, so I can actually  get a good night's sleep. It would be nice to put an end to living as a zombie.

In the spirit of cooperation, last night I got the worst night's sleep so far in the recliner. Whether I get four hours sleep or six, I have at least slept all the way through without consciously waking up. Every night. Except last night. I crawled into the recliner at 12:30 and woke up at 3:00. Are you fucking kidding me? Then I slept intermittently between 3:00 and 7:00.

I go through every day completely numb. Today I classify myself as dead. If I don't fall asleep tonight at the sleep center, there's no hope for me. I'll be riding the recliner to the grave.

Although Emmy Lou and Patsy won't mind. They love having me in the recliner. When they sleep with us in bed, they sleep next to us. When I sleep in the recliner, they curl up in my lap. Both of them.

Luxury accommodations, baby.

At Some Point

I drive a 2020 Hyundai Elantra.

Bought it brand new. The car has no balls, it is not stylish, it has few creature comforts. I should be driving a Lincoln, but I have convinced myself that the fact that I don't have to grimace in fear every time I start the Elantra is "good enough." There is something to be said about the peace of mind a new car brings.

Even if the affluent belly-laugh as I slowly motor on by.

The Hyundai is currently in the shop with a smashed windshield and dented roof. I have a rental. A 2020 Acura MDX. It is described as a mid-size luxury crossover SUV.

It's pretty fucking nice.

I did not go seeking it. I would have taken anything that was available. I tried to set shit up in advance, but through a comedy of errors and inefficiency by the rental company, I ended up with this car.

Much more car than I need. It makes me feel like a man again.

I love driving it.

At some point this week I will have to return it and climb back into the Hyundai.

How's that gonna go?

I will probably hate my car for a while, until I eventually settle back into my assigned role as Poverty Boy, and once again accept my lot in life.

Although I have been daydreaming about driving the Acura to Arizona. It would accomodate me quite comfortably on a cross-country jaunt, maybe even turn a few heads along the way.

I could cross the border into Arizona, just to say I've been there, then immediately turn around and head back to NH. Turn in the Acura, pick up the Hyundai, and go to work in my low-level and humiliating customer service job.

I am sure the satisfaction of the trip will give me the perspective to enjoy the rest of my life.

Wait, what the fuck am I saying? 

No fucking way, Jose.

And my horizons have become even smaller.

There Are Genuine Good People On This Planet (But Not Many)

So we got 100 feet of snow, and a large branch sitting on top of my car, having smashed the windshield.

What do we do?

I ain't no country boy, don't have a chain saw and wouldn't know what to do with it if I did. Don't know any good body repair guys. And trust is a dangerous commodity in the world of car repair. WTF.

For over 30 years we have been bringing our cars to be serviced by Danny. An absolutely remarkable man.

He started the business in 1978, sold it in 2022. He maintains a towing business on his own now, has a flatbead truck.

He treated us with nothing but respect. His service was excellent and reliable. He gave us rides to and fro when we were really stuck, or arranged for his employees to do that. He let us make payments on big bills when we were really broke. He towed my sons out of snow banks when they were rookie drivers. He always responded to every emergency, in good humor, and gave us peace of mind. He gave great advice in those situations when we had to make tough, big-money decisions.

He went out of his way to make things right.

So we called him. In desperation. Even though he sold the business, we called him. For advice.

He said "I have a chain saw, I'll be along."

He showed up a couple of hours later and chopped up the giant sequoia that assaulted my car. He grabbed a shovel and got rid of some snow surrounding the right front tire. He got in my car, rocked it back and forth, and got it out of the snowbank. He assessed the damage.

He recommended a body repair guy that he trusts. He loaded my car on the flatbed and drove it to that location, gave the guy all my information. He called later to give me the name, address and phone number of the body repair guy. He told me he would stay in touch with us throughout the process. I know he will.

He's an old school customer service guy. The kind that doesn't exist anymore. The kind that does everything in his power to ease your worried mind. We trusted him implicitly and still do.

He knows exactly what he's doing business-wise, and he understands that the people he is dealing with are human beings who are stressed out about car problems and money worries, people who he treats with amazing empathy.

Danny saved us on Wednesday. Just like he has many, many times before. We talked, we laughed. He's a much happier guy now that he doesn't have to worry about meeting payroll and managing a business and employees. He told us so. It was great to see him so content.

Danny is a genuine good person. I hope he lives to be 135 years old. 

He is an exceptionally positive force in a cesspool of a world.

That Old College Try

Hunter S. Thompson once said, about booze and drugs, "Without that, I'd have the brain of a second-rate accountant."

I have consumed an ocean of booze in my life, and a fair amount of drugs, and still I was a second-rate accountant.

Apparently I did not try hard enough.

Have You Looked Out The Fucking Window? (Let's Review)

Next week all the simple-minded people will be jumping up and down and clapping their hands like three year olds at a birthday party, as they exclaim: "It's spring! It's spring!"

And I will ask "Have you looked out the fucking window?"

I've been through all this before, but given the fact that the American attention span is 13 seconds, let's review: this is how New England seasons should be separated:

WINTER: November 1 - April 30

SPRING: May 1 - June 30.

SUMMER: July 1 - August 31

FALL: September 1 - October 31

That's it. That's the truth. None of this child-like, manufactured, enthusiasm about spring in March. March sucks, and April ain't much better. Winter is long, spring and summer are short. Fall practically doesn't exist; September is often summer-like, October is often winter-like.

If you try to blow smoke up my ass, and I guarantee you one guy I work with will, I will drag you outside and drive your face into a snowbank and ask "That feel like spring to you?"

Sometimes.................

 "Sometimes there's a gun to your head, and you don't even know it."

Bryan Cranston as Michael Desiato in Your Honor.

Life

Life is much quicker than I

A freight train that whistles on by

It's left my hair ruffled

And left my soul troubled

Life: "Run, or run out of time"

I Remain Immature

Lots of snow this year.

I have been out of my mind. Angry, curt with Carol, explosive, selfish and immature.

The job continues to torture. Lots of self-pity there.

A smashed windshield. My temper has gotten the better of me - at least 108 times since Tuesday.

I could give you 55 other examples of my inability (immaturity) to handle my emotions in 2023 - and today is only March 16.

I will probably never achieve anything in life if I don't learn to control my emotions. And the worst of it is that Carol bears the brunt of it all. She should kill me, but she doesn't. I don't know why.

I am a severly emotional man. I wear my emotions on my sleeve, on my face, in my words, in my actions and reactions.

That is just something to consider. It is not an excuse. 

Adults control their emotions. I do not. And it fucks up everything I do. I gotta get a handle on that. I have to make that happen. Can I? How the fuck do I do it? Stupidity is my go-to reaction in every case, a learned response solidified over 55 years. How do I turn that fucking cruise ship around?

In addition I am unable to compartmentalize. Tom Brady is a master at it.

I called him for advice. He asked my age. When I told him I am 69 he said "You're not worth my effort, you'll be dead soon." I was shocked, having never seen that side of him.

I cannot judge each episode in my life on its own merit. Every bad thing that happens to me gets tossed on the pile, and it is a skyscraper-tall pile. "I wear the chain I forged in life. I made it link by link and yard by yard...............or would you know the weight and length of the strong coil you bear yourself? It was full as heavy and as long as this, seven Christmas-eves ago. You have laboured on it since. It is a ponderous chain."  Jacob Marley.

My chain is ponderous. I have laboured on it for around 55 years.

I remember every bad thing about my life, even tiny, insignificant things people have said to me. I dwell on each and every one of them. But I can't remember good things.

My life in my head is an infinite series of mistakes, omissions, bad decisions and no decisions. So when a new bad thing comes along, its significance is amplified a million times over.

It is a miracle I can stand upright.

Normal people, at least mature adults, compartmentalize and rationalize and understand how life works. They look at each situation as a one-off, they deal with it and move on. They don't slit their own throats every time something goes wrong.

If I am in the mood for ziti and all we have is rigatoni, I put my fist through a window. I didn't put ziti on the shopping list. I didn't pick it up on my own. I didn't take inventory. I didn't plan ahead. I am a fucking moron!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!..........................

And I spent 25 miserable years as an accountant, I have lived in Henniker well beyond the freshness date, I failed in business, I am paying for my house ten times over, I can't afford to retire, I'm fat, I get zero respect and I don't deserve it.............

That is essentially what plays out in my head subconsciously. The stench of infinite failure poisons anything new that goes wrong. That's why no ziti results in stitches.

You think I am exaggerating. I am not. My reactions are way out of proportion to the actual significance of the event.

Pretty fucked up, huh?

OR................ I Could Take This Approach

A branch took out my windshield.

The car has been towed to an auto body dude.

Insurance will pay for it all, minus a $50 deductible.

I will rent a car for a few days (covered by insurance), probably a Ferrari.

I will get my car back in a few days good as new.

No fuss, no muss, episode resolved.

Seems like a more mature approach.

It's My Scientific Speci-ality

 I gots to rob me some banks!

Here's What I Am Thinking

Buried in snow today.

Snowed all day, still snowing. A large branch broke off a tree and landed on my car.

Cracked my fucking windshield. Not sure about the rest of the damage because the snow is so deep and the branch so large I couldn't get a good look. Pretty sure the hood is banged up. Also not sure how bad the windshield is - I could only get a look at a small area of it.

I bought this car brand new in 2020. First brand new car for me in decades.

In 2021 I positioned myself for a good 2022. I did a lot of work on myself and was convinced 2022 would be my year.

In January of 2022 my knee let go - a minsicus tear that sidelined me for most of the year. Surgery in April, slow recovery, couldn't exercise blah blah blah. I got fat. I got slow. I got down.

In January of 2023 I came roaring back. Exercising my ass off. The King of Determination. Against all odds. Trying desperately to find another way.................a different job, some oxygen for my soul, a chance at a life.

Today a branch fell on my car and cracked the windshield.

You know how I feel about life - if you don't beat it into submission it will torture and destroy you. Which it has done to me. I deserve it. All of it. I did it to myself by underestimating life's brutality and my own abilities.

But it goes further than that.

I believe there is some sort of mystical thing, something ethereal about being alive that goes beyond the cause and effect of black and white actions. Karma. I didn't want to go there but it captures what I am trying to say. I believe if you fuck up enough you create an aura, a negative karma, that will sabotage any good thing you can do for yourself. A shield to defend against happiness.

Bought the car brand new in 2020. After 4900 miles the transmission let go. Had to have it replaced.

Punishment.

2022 my knee fucks me up at a time when I was feeling really good about myself. 

Punishment.

Today a branch falls on my car and cracks the windshield in a year when I am working hard to get back in the game before the game comes to a premature fucking end. 

Punishment.

It is entirely possible that I have gone beyond the tipping point. To a place where happiness is impossible. Outlawed. Not allowed.

It is entirely possible that I have put so much negative bullshit out into the world through sheer failure, that I drag it around with me, like Jacob Marley with his chains. That I will trip over it every time I take a step towards happiness. And fall on my face.

In addition, I have always questioned the wisdom of being a good boy. I have put some effort into doing just that in the last three years and it has gotten me absolutely nowhere.

What's the fucking point? I have a lot more fun when I fuck around. 

If trying to get happy is just a colossal waste of fucking time at this point of my life, why not throw in the towel and just stop giving a shit about anything at all. Why not be completely reckless in the short time I have left?

It is entirely possible that my life is already over, the end is pre-determined, and that I am just banging my head against a karmic wall. Continuing a lifelong habit of doing the wrong thing. Taking the wrong fucking approach.

I have no fucking clue what I should do. Time is so fucking short it causes paralysis of the decision-making process.

I know where I want to end up. Will discipline get me there? Will lunacy get me there?

Who the fuck knows.

Who Took My Tooth?

Had a tooth yanked out of my skull on Thursday.

Not that big a deal; I was surprised at how quickly it went. Also surprised at what a pain in the ass it's been since. C'est la vie.

Got home from Dr. Dentist around 12:30 and voluntarily subjected myself to emotional extortion.

Set up comfortably in the recliner and watched two documentaries. One on Jim Brown, one on Bob Dylan playing at the Newport Folk Festival 1963-1964-1965.

Great documentaries about two men who mean a lot to me.

I have been diagnosed with Stage IV of life. It's getting dark, baby. 

So my perspective of the people who inspire me is hugely different in 2023 than it was in the 1960's. I could say that I have matured, but that would be a lie. The perspective changes relative to life, not relative to the man.

I watch these things with a great deal of melancholy now. These guys inspired me when I was young, when I still thought I could live my life uniquely instead of like a sheep. That never happened. So I sit and watch film of them shaking up the world and living life on their own terms, and wonder why a small piece of their greatness never made it from my soul into tangible decisions about my own life.

I knew that Jim Brown's toughness of character and Bob Dylan's creativity were two weapons I could use against the world. I could use a bit more toughness in my approach to life; I have some level of creativity that I never nurtured.

Who knows why these things rarely come to be. It is one thing to admire someone and to identify specific things about them that might be useful in your own life, lessons to be learned; and quite another to do something about it.

It's easier to buy a t-shirt.

It was comforting sitting in the recliner with a numb mouth, mourning the loss of a purloined tooth, and watching these documentaries.

Jim Brown and Bob Dylan have given me huge amounts of pleasure. It would be silly to compare their lives and my own in any way.

Still....................

Like Having a Tooth Pulled

Working this afternoon, working a show tonight.

I am not pleased but, as Tony Soprano often said, "Whaddya gonna do?"

Having a tooth pulled tomorrow.

I will enjoy tomorrow more than today.

Trash Can Willy

Swung by Dunkin' Donuts this morning. (I just can't get into the habit of dropping the Donuts).

Had to get my fucking car out of the snow suffocated driveway, so Trash Can Willy could back his truck in. We can't even fit a matchbox car in the driveway now, because we have snowbanks the size of Mt. Everest.

If you have mountains of trash, call Trash Can Willys Junk Removal Service immediately. They are fucking spectacular. In fact they are so good, even if you only have one dixie cup to dispose of, call them immediately. 

We have availed ourselves of their services 3, maybe 4 times now, over the past couple of years. As we try and try and try to make this house alluring to some unsuspecting rube willing to part with hundreds of thousands of hard-earned dollars.

We really taxed Willy up front - the first time we had them over, they cleaned out our basement, our solarium, our porch. Mountains and mountains of trash and refuse, built up over our 37 year residency in this mausoleum. It took them 3 and 1/2 hours, filling bag after bag after bag of trash, carting them out to the truck.

Every time they have been here they were polite, personable, efficient, and they worked their asses off.

We account for 55% of their gross income since 2020.

I'm sitting in line at Dunkin' Donuts, it's 8:45, and I see one employee ending her shift and slinking back to her car. Pocket book over the arm, some clothing draped over an arm, looking a little ragged, shuffling off to imaginary freedom. A couple of minutes later a fresh employee arrives - walks across the parking lot, pocket book hanging on the arm, carrying whatever else she needs in the other hand, looking a little fresher (that won't last), shuffling in to another dose of involuntary suffering.

Neither one of them was dancing.

Scenes like this kill me. Working sucks, unless you love what you do, which accounts for 1/2 of 1% of working stiffs in the world. No way around it - you gotta work. But the harm that working does to people is immeasurable.

The death of dignity, the psychological harm, the physical harm, the slaughter of the psyche - it is a brutal thing that shortens lifespans. Without the requirement to work, life expectancy in this fucked up country would be 230 years for women, 180 years for men.

No work today; today I live. Work tomorrow; tomorrow I die.

Three-fingers whiskey, baby - the only way to fight back.

A Perfect Life Approach

 "Living is easy with eyes closed, misunderstanding all you see"

From Strawberry Fields Forever, by The Beatles

Bye Bye, Pasta

Just got around to flipping my Bruins poster over to March.

I didn't want to do it - the February picture is David Pastrnak. I love David Pastrnak. Incredible hockey player, loads of personality, and one hell of a wardrobe.

He just signed an 8 year, $90 million contract with the Bruins. Yesterday at work, I formally requested an 8 year, $90 million contract. Bossman said: "Take the trash out to the dumpster, won't you?"

March is Derek Forbort. I don't know much about him, but he'll be keeping me company for the next 24 days up here. We'll be good buddies by the end of the month.

Two of my favorite athletes currently have nicknames of Pasta and Rafa. Pretty cool, huh?

I shudder to think what nicknames people have for me.

Give Me (and Everybody Else) a Break!

 "A nap can give you an hour's break from needing to be right all the time, an affliction leading to blindness to the natural world, not to speak of your wife and children."

Jim Harrison

Even My Taste Buds Are Bored

Friday night we treat ourselves.

No cooking. I pick up supper. I work in Concord, so there is a multitude of choices. 

This past Friday we did D'Angelo's - we like that joint, plus I'm always getting 20% off online orders promos on my phone. We are paupers - we can't afford food otherwise.

Except Spam. Spam is a delicacy. $2.99. Affordable and versatile. Four meals a week for $11.96. The rest of the time we eat flax seeds in chocolate sauce. We know how to live.

I had a Korean Rice & Grain bowl Friday night. Fucking delicious. Lately I have been opting for more exotic stuff - food I don't normally get, food that is spicy and boldly flavored.

Because I am fucking bored with everything and I'll take any kick I can get.

Grilled chicken, Korean barbecue sauce, cilantro, sriracha cole slaw, American cheese, served over long grain brown rice, sprouted brown and red rice, colusari red rice, and wild rice. Those are the ingredients.

I don't know what makes up Korean barbecue sauce, I don't know what sprouted rice is, I don't know what colusari red rice is. I don't care.

My taste buds were dancing. I was dancing. I felt so alive, it felt so good to get a jolt of life, I was dancing like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. Back and forth across the living room floor, driving Carol crazy as I intermittantly interrupted her view of The Office.

Somehow the neighbors became aware. They gathered outside our picture window, clapping, hooting and hollering. A raucous crowd cheering me on. Drinking beers, sipping whiskey from flasks, holding up Bic lighters and cell phones. I turned up the intensity, doing back flips, moonwalking, break dancing. 

They were howling in delight.

Mad in frenzy, I whipped off my t-shirt and circled it around my head. Suddenly there was silence. The neighbors ran like a panicked crowd fleeing a marauding pack of wolves. I also noticed vomit on the snow.

Sometimes I go too far.

But shit, man - I was feeling alive! From a fucking Korean Rice & Grain bowl.

If only my soul was as easy to excite as my fucking taste buds.

This Is Important

 What will my happy ending be?

The Ultimate Wish

 "I wish there was a way to know you're in the good old days before you leave them."

Andy in "The Office"

Ain't Life A Bitch

Split Personality Disorder: Formerly known as multiple personality disorder, this disorder is characterized by "switching" to alternate identities. You may feel the presence of two or more people talking or living inside your head, and you may feel as though you're possessed by other identities.

Source: Mayo Clinic - Dissociative Disorders - Symptoms and Causes

There are two very different versions of me in my head and they are on a schedule. Every other fucking day.

I have talked about this before, I hope you were paying attention. But since 2023 has come around to torture me, the experience has been exponentially amplified.

I drink on the days I have to work, I do not drink on the days that I don't. I am furious and overcome with self-loathing on the days I have to work, I am relatively peaceful on the days that I don't. My temper is explosive on work days, I am much less likely to kill someone on non-work days. I feel despairing on work days and hopeful (maybe I'm fooling myself) on non-work days.

It is a strange and disorienting existence.

I despise my job more than ever this year - I mean I fucking loathe it with every fibre of my being, every waking breath. As I drive to work, I toy with the idea of swerving into the path of oncoming 18-wheelers. I don't do it because another life is involved. 

This job is the major source of unhappiness because it forces me to face myself in all my underachieving glory. 

Every single work-day for torturous hours at a time. Squirming in my seat like an innocent but condemned man, five minutes before execution. Shrieking in despair every time the phone rings. Succumbing to dread every time a fucking customer walks through the door.

This job is ground glass in my Ben & Jerry's Caramel Chocolate Cheesecake ice cream. It is an ice pick in my ear. It is razor blades in my Dr. Scholl's Heavy Duty Support Inserts Designed For Men over 200 pounds.

This job fucking sucks.

On my days off, although I am more relaxed, I am obsessed with nailing down a way to make money that won't slice up my soul. Overwhelmingly obsessed since The Meltdown. The job has to be something I can do from home, and it has to involve some form of writing.

Copywriting, technical writing, I don't give a shit, as long as I can write and get paid for it. You say "Joe - you sound like a dreamer and an idiot!" You forget - I wrote some stuff for a copywriting website last year and got paid for it. I fucking blew it because I didn't take it seriously enough and blew deadlines and fucked up re-writes. And the unforgiving motherfuckers dissolved our relationship.

Of course the only happy-time solution for my soul would be to get paid for creative writing. But only an idiot in my position would say "Hey, I'm going to freelance my way to financial freedom." Ain't life a bitch.

I am burning up Indeed and ZipRecruiter and will continue to do so until something falls from the trees. I will apply and apply and apply until someone says "All right, already - we'll give you a fucking job."

Or until I come up with a better plan.

So for now, on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays I am an insufferable psychopath. On Tuesdays, Thursdays, and lately - even Saturdays and Sundays (now that there are more bodies to work shows), I am a sweet pacifist.

Except this week. I have to work a show Sunday night. I fucking hate working on Sundays, but nobody else can do it. On Sunday night you better believe I will be a raging psychopath. Customers may die.

I gotta get rid of this fucking job!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I Predict That on December 25, 2023 I Will Say..................

 "There was a terrible mistake when I checked my driver's license today and saw that I'd be seventy next week."

Jim Harrison

I'm not looking forward to it.

Fatal Prematurely

At this point I'd settle for the life Howard Ratner lived in Uncut Gems.

Including the bullet to the head that did him in.

His life was a pathetic struggle, built on a foundation of ridiculous dreams and schemes, but there are different levels of pathetic. Pathetic with money - even if it's temporary and an illusion - is better than pathetic with no money.

If you have stretches in your life when you live well, you are ahead of the game, ahead of most struggling no-hopers. So die young; at least you had some fun.

Carol went to bed at 11:00, leaving me in my recliner/bed. I was feeling lost. I caught the last hour of Uncut Gems (which I have seen before) alone, in the dark. It suited my mood perfectly.

I set it to record on Sunday so I can watch it from the beginning.

So I can empathize with Howard Ratner's enormous, and ultimately, prematurely fatal, struggle with life.

Sorry I'm Sad

I'm sorry I'm sad.

It makes you uncomfortable,

doesn't it?

You'd prefer that I fake it, 

wear the same stillborn smile 

you wear every day.

Pretend I'm ok.

I'm not.

You don't have to do anything special,

don't have to cheer me up.

Just leave me alone.

Accept that I hurt more than I can hide today.

You are not bulletproof, so don't waste my time and

don't expect me to waste yours.

I'm sorry I'm sad.

I won't laugh at your lame jokes today;

there's a lesson in that for you.

Won't engage in inane conversation,

won't say anything I don't mean.

I am pure truth today, against my will.

My truth today is stifling sadness.

I don't expect you to understand.

I expect you to leave me alone.

February - A Reckoning

I exercised 15 days in February.

I lost 4 more pounds in February.

Coming into 2023 I weighed 198 pounds; I now weigh 190. That is significant. 

At that pace I will weigh 150 pounds on December 31, and will finally look like Christian Bale in The Machinist, which has always been my goal.

I am happy with the weight loss. It will slow down but it's a damn good start.

My exercise record in February sucked, just over 50%,.....................................but I have an excuse (there's always an excuse).

We had a couple of guys doing some work in the house in February. There were in and out over a period of about two and a half weeks. Seriously fucked up my exercise schedule; I did the best I could but it was challenging.

I will come roaring back in March.

I am seriously motivated in many different ways after that fucking meltdown I spoke about recently. I am sick of me in every way possible.

I am attacking everything in my life with vicious abandon; releasing my inner Honey badger. (From Joe's March 2023 press release.)

Is He Talking To Me?

 "It is easy to mourn the lives we aren't living. Easy to wish we'd developed other talents, said yes to different offers. Easy to wish we'd worked harder, loved better, handled our finances more astutely, been more popular, stayed in the band, gone to Australia, said yes to the coffee or done more bloody yoga. 

It takes no effort to miss the friends we didn't make and the work we didn't do and the people we didn't marry and the children we didn't have. It is not difficult to see yourself through the lens of other people, and to wish you were all the different kaleidoscopic versions of you they wanted you to be. It is easy to regret, and keep regretting, ad infinitum, until our time runs out. 

But it is not the lives we regret not living that are the real problem. It is the regret itself. It's the regret that makes us shrivel and wither and feel like our own and other peoples' worst enemy. 

We can't tell if any of those other versions would have been better or worse. Those lives are happening, it is true, but you are happening as well, and that is the happening we have to focus on."

From The Midnight Library, by Matt Haig