What's The Fucking Point?

Can someone please give me something to fucking hang on to?

Jesus fucking Christ

The Boston Bruins

I need this game tonight. The Bruins have to win.

All sports fans know that part of the beauty of watching sports is that sports take you out of your life. When you watch a game, you get out of your head, you get to be insane, to yell, to swear, to laugh, to cry - you know, all those human things that society frowns upon. You feel alive. 

The Bruins have been saving my life all season long. I have watched almost every fucking game, and the happiness I experienced in this extraordinary season is immeasurable. They lifted my spirits and allowed me to forget about the torturous details of my life for hundreds of hours. An extraordinary gift.

And.............. I forced Carol to watch them too by virtue of her being in the same room as me - she is a better person for it.

I have struggled through Round 1 of the playoffs, as have the Bruins. The Panthers have made the Bruins look vulnerable; Ullmark has not been invincible. After a mind-blowing and record breaking season in many ways, a year when every other team on the ice with the Bruins shit their pants in fear, the Panthers have been pushing them around.

It's 3-3. Game 7 tonight. Do or die. This is it.

It is impossible for me to believe the Bruins could lose in Round 1. Fucking impossible. They deserve The Cup. They fucking deserve it. The perfect ending to an almost perfect season. That is the way life should go. 

But life is a motherfucker. Shitty things happen in sports, as in life, unpredictable things, things that shatter your heart when it is already cracked to the brink of disaster. Just ask the 2007 NEW ENGLAND PATRIOTS. And their fans.

Carol and I watched 80 for Brady last night. An impossibly lame movie. But there was a lot of footage from Super Bowl LI - PATS/Falcons. The Super Bowl where THE PATS came back from a 25 point deficit in the third quarter to win the fucking thing in OT. Those scenes had me emotionally wired all over again.

I was thinking about the Bruins. Game 7 at home in TD Garden in front of their rabidly loyal fans. That place will be rocking.

If they lose I will be crushed. Depressed beyond expression. Because I invested my whole life and all my emotions in the Bruins this season; they were the one reliable thing I could go to on the hate-filled days when I could not wrestle my job or the insignificance of my life down to a manageable size. And they lifted my spirits every single time. Fucking magic.

I believe in the Bruins. I feel confident. But the Devil will be in the building too. Nothing is guaranteed.

I need the Bruins to move on in the playoffs so my life can continue to have some sparkle to it. So I can have something to look forward to that clears anger and self-loathing out of my head. Something pure to match the intensity of my emotions.

I choose to be confidant.

Murderous Instincts

 Murderous instincts are difficult to quell, and cathartic when indulged.

Thanks, Gramps

I noticed the following words on the back of my stick of Old Spice deodorant:

"If your grandfather hadn't worn it, you wouldn't exist."

The marketing crew at Old Spice have a sense of humor. I love them for that. 

They have the weirdest ads on TV. I know you don't like the ones for mens' body wash, but your opinion doesn't count - you have no sense of humor. I love those ads.

They have put many other weirdnesses on TV as well.

Thanks, Gramps - for doin' up Old Spice.

Do NOT Pursue

Alone in the dark with my mind

I do have a really good time

Imagination diseased

I go where I please

Don't pursue, you won't like what you find

I Am A Vampire

And I like it.

Used to be I'd wake up at 3:10 am and become immediately furious. Which would keep me awake for the next 2 hours and 50 minutes until the fucking alarm clock went off. So I could go to work, dutiful soldier that I was, and do my job on minimal sleep. This happened 4800 times.

That was way back in the wayback. I have adjusted. You have to adjust as you age because things keep getting taken away from you. You survive by shrugging your shoulders and accepting the indignities.

Now I am a vampire, livng a strange existence. Been sleeping in the recliner for two, two and a half months now. That alone is a bit strange, although I expect a lot of people sleep in their recliners. Sleep is a fantasy.

An odd pattern has emerged. Typically I "go to recliner" around midnight. Lately I have been waking up at odd and unpredictable times. 3 o'clock, 4:30, 5 o'clock. Last night it was 2:30. Cool, huh?

I get up, go to the bathroom and feed the cats. Feed the cats??????????? Yup. Their pattern has changed because of me. Now they get fed when we go to bed, and when I first wake up. Because................if I don't feed them at 2, 3, or 4 o'clock, Emmy Lou will be pawing my face later on begging for food. And I get little enough sleep as it is.

So I was walking around at 2:30 this morning pondering my strange existence. Wearing a bit of a smirk. I really don't get mad anymore. I know I can survive with an offensively small amount of sleep, so who gives a fuck when I go to bed, when I wake up, how long I sleep, how well I sleep - it is all meaningless.

This approach reduces stress. And I do crawl back into the recliner at 2, 3 or 4 o'clock and pilfer a little more sleep. I lay there like Puddy on the plane and wait.................because I am so tired I am guaranteed to get a litttle more sleep. And I do.

Anyway, as I walk around at 2, 3, or 4 o'clock in the morning, it feels so strange - vampire-like. I feel like I am alone in the world, alone in the dark, living a life dissimilar to most people. It feels so bizarre that I kind of like it. I wish I could live my whole life in that place. 

When the sun rises I am disappointed. Another day has forced itself upon me. I am once again obligated to reveal my weaknesses to the world.

Give me the dark. Give me stillness. Give me alone.

I am indeed a vampire.

At least at heart.

Bone Tired

 6:11 am. Another half-night's sleep.

Bone tired.

Gotta go to Torture World today. Gonna spend 7 hours there.

I don't need Hell.

My soul's burning up inside me.

Disquieting Truth

 "Most women have a level of trust in the men whom they love that men seldom earn or deserve. As a rule, we do not appreciate that level of trust until it's destroyed."

From Crusader's Cross, by James Lee Burke

Tomorrow's Still Another Day

David, killing time online, came across an expression that resonated with his soul. "Fake happiness is the worst kind of sadness." BOOM! The depth of those words, the truth, the internal pain that they implied, was overwhelming to him.

He knew the sadness he experienced was no different than the sadness experienced by millions of others, but that did not make it any easier to bear. These people were no comfort to him, and he didn't really give a shit about their suffering. He operated on the assumption that they did not give a shit about him either.

The fact that he had to pretend to be happy in the presence of others was excruciating to him. An actual, physical pain. Nobody was happy; why play this fucking meaningless game? Stay isolated; other people are cancer.

And that is how he lived his life. Alone and in the dark, as much as was feasible. Candlelight, sometimes no light, sometimes only the light from the TV. Dark was safe. Dark made sense. Dark hid the truth. And accentuated it.

He had wasted some time with a therapist, going against every instinct in his soul. The only thing this guy ever said that connected with David was that the extreme state of melancholy and emptiness within which he lived his life was dangerous.

No fucking shit.

There was one song he listened to over and over. Birth, School, Work, Death by The Godfathers. That song, to David, summarized life more accurately than any so-called enlightened philosophy. Fuck Marcus Aurelius.

That's all there is to life. Nothing. Fucking nothing. 

You are born, you get twisted by your parents, you go to school to study shit you don't care about, you work a job you fucking hate, and you die in your driveway walking out to get the paper the day after you retire.

An extreme state of melancholy and emptiness. Fake happiness is the worst kind of sadness.

David laughed as he cried.

Tomorrow's still another day.

The Deception in Their Voices

"Until one special, glorious night in his twelfth year, he had been one of the enslaved masses, dumbly plodding through life according to the rules of so-called civilization, though they made no sense to him..................

as he listened to himself playing the game of love, employing strategies of false affection and shameless flattery, he was amazed at how convincing others found him, for he could hear the insincerity in his voice, could feel the fraudulence in every gesture, and was acutely aware of the deceipt behind his every loving smile. Then one day he suddenly heard the deception in their voices and saw it in their faces, and he realized that none of them had ever experienced love, either, or any of the nobler sentiments toward which a civilized person was supposed to aspire - selflessness, courage, piety, humility, and all the rest of that dreary catechism. They were all playing the game too."

From Hideaway, by Dean Koontz

Choices Dwindled

 When he got home from work, Ron was exhausted. He lived in New Orleans but worked in a warehouse in Metairie. He worked hard, he worked long, he worked sad - this dead-end job beat his soul to within an inch of its demise. But it was all he'd ever known.

He sat down to his nightly whiskey or two after fixing himself a meal of biscuits and sausage gravy and, before he could succumb to overwhelming fatigue, Ron dragged himself out of the rickety wooden kitchen chair to go visit his wife.

His second wife. Ron's first wife never got him. There was a little magic in the beginning, although Ron suspected he was thinking with his groin and not his brain at the time. But life, as it has a predictable way of doing, got tough. He found jobs, he lost jobs, times changed and choices dwindled. He took what he could get and found himself trapped in a reality he could never have imagined. No hope, no escape; a slowly tightening vice. Cruelly fueled by a variable rate mortgage.

Ron's first wife, expecting better, became a drinker and eventually left him. After 27 years of marriage. She told him to his face that she could find a better husband with her eyes closed. Her second husband was a drunk that beat her. Ron took some satisfaction in that knowledge.

Ron met Nancy two years later. He was 53, she was 43. She made him deliriously happy. They got married. They shared the same interests, same sense of humor, same outlook on life. They enjoyed the same kinds of food, the same type of music. They went out to eat, they danced. It was a perfect relationship.

Nancy died three years after the wedding. Raging pancreatic cancer. Ron became a drinker. The only happiness he had ever experienced was snatched away from him and he could not understand it. But he kept up his visits with her. At the Lafayette Cemetery. Two or three nights a week.

On this night, as was his custom, Ron drove to Lafayette, walked to Nancy's small tomb, touched it and sobbed, as despair racked his body. Eventually he laid down in front of it on a thick blanket, using a work jacket for a pillow, and prayed for death. His only dream was to die. Life was unbearable.

He awoke the next morning to sunshine and humidity. And disappointment.

Once again, he picked himself up, kissed Nancy's tomb, went home to take a shower, and drove to Metairie.

The Way Tony Soprano Did

There is one goal that I am laser-focused on achieving in 2023, come hell or high water.

I will learn to eat ice cream the way Tony Soprano did. Remember?

First of all, he moved the ice cream around the bowl like a conductor directing a symphony orchestra. Dipping the spoon into the ice cream, sliding it front to back and back to front - it took him two minutes before he got each bite into his mouth.

And the bowl. It was a bowl like I eat cereal out of, or soup. A big motherfucking bowl. With mounds of ice cream in it.

Which brings me to the next - and most important point. Tony ate his ice cream without guilt. The quintessential absence of guilt. He enjoyed the fuck out of it.

I have eaten 80% less ice cream over the last ten years because I did not want to get fat. But I got fat anyway. So fuck it, I'm back to eating ice cream. Besides, it's much more likely that I'll drop dead now than it ever was, and dying with an unrequited lust for ice cream is the worst way to go.

So yeah, I'm gonna learn to eat ice cream the way Tony Soprano did. There are worse role models than Tony Soprano.

Most of them are politicians.

The Kids Are Alright

I enjoyed two spectacular evenings recently.

One with Craig & Amanda in their home, one with Keith in his apartment, at Jimmy's Jazz & Blues Club, at a killer sports bar.

Fuckin' eh, I was so happy all the way around.

I popped over to visit Craig one night. We ate pizza, enjoyed a cocktail or two...................and talked. We always have good conversations, and this night was no different. We were indulging in the verbal give and take when - lo and behold - Amanda walked in from work. Apparently she was goofing off instead of earning the money Craig requires to live the extravagant lifestyle he deserves. Nevertheless, the three of us talked. For hours.

Honest, straight-ahead conversation. On deep topics, covering a wide range of things. This was the kind of conversation that feeds the soul - no bullshit, straight from the heart, nobody was trying to impress anybody else, nobody was faking it. The exact opposite of the conversations that fill your life every fucking day at work and elsewhere. 

I fucking yearn for this type of conversation. I get it 2% of the time. 

The conversation was so good and so meaningful that me leaving felt like pulling a tooth - I did not want to go. But alas, I did.

On another night I motored out to Portsmouth because Keith and I had tickets to see Mike Zito and Albert Castiglia at Jimmy's Jazz & Blues Club. I was late, so instead of eating out, Keith picked up subs and we ate at his place.

I was stressed out, in a bad mood because I had just picked up the decimated Hyundai the day before and realized it was a fucking rolling cadaver, never again to be the same. But, I got to Keith's, we chowed down and talked..................and I was instantaneously comforted. Such sweet release for me to talk comfortably with my sons. Tonic for the soul.

Keith lives right down the street from Jimmy's - are you fucking kidding me? If I lived that close I would be there one night a week, and Carol and I would have to downgrade from cat food to gruel. We walked down, in through the door and into paradise. This place is amazing. I have so wanted to go there since it opened in September of 2021, and I finally got to experience it for the first time, with my son.

Spectacular show, the place was rockin'. Afterwards, Keith took me to an amazing sports bar and we caught the third period of a Bruins game. Had a blast. Went back to his apartment, where I spent the night, after more conversation.

The next morning, as with Craig & Amanda, I did not want to leave. It was such a spectacular night, I wanted that glow to last. But leave I did, after saying goodbye to Keith and Jack.

Two mystical, magical nights that filled my soul to capacity with contentment and happiness.

Editor's Note: On both of those nights I felt exactly myself. Perfectly comfortable in my own skin.

There is a deep and meaningful message in that, especially relative to recent comments I have made in here.

Consider Yourself Warned

I'm telling you right now, I'm going to lose this motherfucking job, lose this fucking "lifestyle"; I am so sick of every boring, meaningless moment in my life - I CANNOT STAND IT ANYMORE.

2023 is the line in the sand - I either get what I want, or I will inflict pain on every motherfucker who has to deal with me.

You have not felt my anger. The real thing - genuine, over the top, pissed off anger.

When you run into it for real, it will melt your fucking face off.

Consider yourself warned.

Time For a Change

 I'm gonna start wearing an eye patch, and drink in dive bars.

I Did It Again

I turned magic into mud.

Had the entire extended nuclear family here for dinner last Sunday. A rare event indeed. Everyone had a good time (I assume). But I have a remarkable capacity to take a delicate and precious gift and smash it against the wall.

I had a good time, I had a very good time, but not at the intensity I should have experienced. My family is the only happiness I have and it is powerful. The rest of my life sucks, so the family gatherings carry deep meaning for me. 

As The Dad-Person, I feel my presence should be larger than life. But when all are gathered around me, I shrivel up into half-man; a small percentage of my true personality is on display - the rest is buried under anxiety. Nothing I say is natural, nothing I do is natural. I feel like all eyes are upon me every single second of the visit. Pretty ridiculous, eh?

My brother is quick-witted and hilarious; he keeps the atmosphere fun and light. He makes everybody laugh. I appreciate that, but I feel like I am contributing nothing to the festivities, by way of comparison.

My Uncle Carmen was hilarious, my father was intense. I do not want anyone seeing my brother and me in the same way. I am not a serious person. But I fear it doesn't come across.

You have heard all this before so feel free to tune out. It's just that 2023 is kicking me around pretty good, and I am determined to get happy and proud, so failing to "just be myself" last Sunday destroyed me. Repercussions persist.

I have asthma. I have an emergency inhaler, which I hardly ever use. If I use it 12 times a year I'd be surprised. I used it three times on Sunday. Once before the family showed up, once right after they left, and again just before I went to sleep. "Strong emotions and stress are well known triggers of asthma" -  Asthma and Allergy Foundation of America. Say no more, say no more.

Full disclosure - I also vacuumed a bit that day.

The root of all this anxiety, of course, is that I don't know who I am. I have spent so many years pretending, that the real me only comes out at night. In the dark. In my mind. And I am not really sure it is the real me. It's all so confusing that I sometimes suspect that the persona I put out there every day, the confidant insane guy, is the real me.

But that's not possible, is it? Is it possible to have it all backwards? I mean the voice in my head at night, that's gotta be the real me. Right?

I don't know. But I do know that sabotaging my ability to enjoy my family is the stupidest, most harmful thing I can do.

So.....................back to the quest for a therapist to fix my brain. But I have specific expectations this time around. Gotta be an ex-Marine with zero patience, an iron will, no tolerance for touchy-feely shit, and a fondness for cattle prods.

Time to get serious, Bubba.

Flipping The Script

How about this?

Instead of mourning the death of my 2020 Hyundai Elantra, featuring intelligent innovations inside & out...................

I will use that disappointment to fuel my obsession with owning a Lincoln by December 31, 2023.

I feel my ass nestling into the buttery soft leather seats already. Mmmmmmmmmmmm.............

'Cause you gotta have goals.

Maybe I Shouldn't Read Books Like This

 "Murder was always enormously satisfying. Tremendous internal pressures were released with the strike of a killing blow. More important, each murder was an act of rebellion against all things holy, against commandments and laws and rules and the irritatingly prissy systems of manners employed by human beings to support the fiction that life was precious and endowed with meaning. Life was cheap and pointless. Nothing mattered but sensation and the swift gratification of all desires, which only the strong and free really understood. After every killing, Vassago felt as liberated as the wind and mightier than any steel machine."

From Hideaway, by Dean Koontz

My Favorite Dream

 "Sometimes he dreamed of dying multitudes writhing in agony on barren ground beneath a black sky, and he walked among them as a prince of Hell among the common rabble of the damned."

From Hideaway, by Dean Koontz

Twenty Three Weak Links

A shocking revelation of my future exploded in a dream. A vision of myself crawling forward on all fours, hands and knees bleeding. Through mud so thick it made sucking sounds as I moved; first one hand, then the other, one knee, then the other. Struggling to get to a place that I loathed.

To do as I was told, in defiance of The Self; things that offended and demeaned me.

Each of my vertebrae, except one, was fractured but not broken. Twenty three weak links, fragile and ready to maim me when the inevitable clean-break occurred. It would be a relief when it happened.

No longer compelled to respond to every command, like a dog whose spirit has been broken.

Is this the definition of peace that no one ever tells you about?

The Loneliest Man On Earth (A Darker Version)

Bobby was the loneliest man on planet earth. By design. He relished the pain.

God knows he tried to make connections with other people, but let's face it - people are boring and people are selfish. Co-workers, women, bars, sports - he made the effort and was disappointed every single time. People are stupid, people are petty. Few are worthy of life.

Bobby retreated. To his apartment, and into his mind. He knew that he was the only one worthy of his company. So he worked from home (and did quite well for himself), had his groceries delivered, and never left the apartment unless he had to pick up his special treat.

Human skin, cooked until crispy, was absolutely sublime. Why wouldn't it be? You always go for the crispiest piece of chicken skin, right? It is a short trip from chicken to human. And human flesh has an endless variety of flavors. The things people eat, do they drink or not, do they smoke or not, do they exercise, are they fat, are they skinny, how do they take care of their skin, do they keep it moist or let it go dry - all of these factors contribute to flavor variations.

Bobby's closest friend Ed was a mortician, and Ed kept him supplied with fresh skin. He'd peel a flap or two off each corpse and freeze them for subsequent delivery. People trust morticians in their moment of vulnerability, but morticians are the ghouls you think they are. It's just more comfortable to pretend they are virtuous. If you knew what the mortician did to your mother's corpse you'd kill him with your bare hands.

Bobby paid a premium for this service, more so on the nights when he just had to have fresh flesh, but it was worth it. Human flesh cooked up on his electric indoor grill, and basted with his homemade marinade, was exquisite. Sometimes he even ate it with his fingers while watching TV, which felt particularly decadent to him.

Pamela had taken an annoying interest in Bobby because she knew there was something odd about him. She was attracted to odd. She lived in the apartment next door and took notice of the deliveries to the apartment, and the frenzied comings and goings on odd nights. He was rude to her, ignored her, insulted her, but to no avail. Pamela was relentless.

Bobby was watching a documentary one night when there was a knock on the door. The movie was titled The Loneliest Whale, and he found it amusing. It was about the 52-hertz whale, which has spent its entire life in solitude, calling out at a frequency different than any other whale. Why does he call out? He would only be bitterly disappointed by companionship. Bobby thought the whale was pathetic. Bobby made his own entertainment, and he found his life to be quite fulfilling.

Working on his fourth whiskey, his radar compromised, Bobby answered the door. It was Pamela. She said "I intercepted tonight's delivery. I know it's from Ed the mortician because I have been spying on you. I want you to show me what it is."

Bobby disguised his rage and invited Pamela into the apartment. As she brushed past him, he closed and locked the door, grabbed the baseball bat he kept close at hand, and smashed her in the back of the head.

She stumbled to the floor, and in an uncontrollable rage Bobby was upon her, bashing her skull over and over and over until it was pulp. He stood over her wheezing from exertion, and wondered what the hell he was going to do with her body.

Then inspiration struck.

He walked into the kitchen and slid one of his high-end carving knives out of the hardwood knife block. Walked back to Pamela's body, cut a hole in her jeans and sliced a flap of skin off her thigh.

Looking demonic with a sinister smile on his lips and blood dripping off his chin, he thought:

"Human flesh tartare. A fucking delicacy."

The Loneliest Man On Earth

Bobby felt like the loneliest man on planet earth, and learned how badly lonely hurts.

But the pain felt like truth.

He did not deliberately avoid people, at least not at first. Socializing with co-workers, dating women, participating in book clubs, finding and frequenting a favorite bar - he tried these things and more, and had some fun. But he always ended on empty. The process was enjoyable, but frustrating, because it led nowhere, at least nowhere that made sense to him.

Bobby narrowed his options until he became his only option. Searching for satisfaction of the soul, and arriving at the realization that his soul was on its own.

People are distracted; they have lives to lead and problems to solve - they don't have time for fulfillment. They look to the left when they should be looking to the right, and are stunned when the shocking realization comes around that life has passed them by.

Bobby tried so hard to avoid that fate that his solace wound up being his books, his poetry, his music and his movies in a very small apartment that would not accomodate visitors. Which was good, because there weren't any.

He worked from home, had his groceries and other necessities delivered, and only left the apartment when he absolutely had to. Many of his neighbors had no idea what he looked like.

The Loneliest Whale came into his life and tipped him over the edge. Bobby came across the movie randomly and the topic enthralled him. It's a documentary about the 52-hertz whale, which scientists believe has spent its entire life in solitude calling out at a frequency that is different than any other whale - 52 hertz. It's migration track is unrelated to the presence or movement of other whale species.

In other words, it lives entirely on its own.

The first time Bobby watched the movie he was wide-eyed. After that he sobbed, pausing the movie to recover, re-starting it to nurture his soul. A direct and life-giving connection.

For the first time in his life, Bobby was not alone.

A Sad Day Indeed

Last Friday I was forced to return the mid-size luxury crossover SUV Acura MDX I've been renting.

They gave it to me, I had 3 weeks to settle into the luxury and ballsiness of this beast, time to begin to believe I was worthy.................and they took it away. Bait and switch, baby - the formula of life.

The Hyundai was ready. Supposedly.

Even Sadder: The Hyundai will never be the same. It doesn't drive right. It doesn't feel right. I don't think I am in any imminent danger (although the thrill of the gamble awakens my spirit behind the wheel), but the car is not the same. This is what happens when a Giant Sequoia brutally attacks an itty bitty compact car featuring intelligent innovations inside and out.

In addition....................I found out yesterday that the sunroof doesn't work. The fucking sunroof doesn't work. So I am going back to collision man on Thursday to get that straightened out. I don't trust this guy, he feels greasy.

I have come full circle to the negative karma thing (and here I am trying so hard to be positive in 2023) (?).

You know the story. Bought me a brand new 2020 Hyundai Elantra in 2020. Not a Lincoln - never a Lincoln - but - at least and at last - a new car. Unlimited potential. Guaranteed reliability.

Until the fucking transmission blew up at 4900 miles.

No sweat - got it replaced at no cost to me - except the cost of anger. The dealership treated me like a leper. And I made them pay. I filed complaints with the Better Business Bureau, with the dealer, with Hyundai corporate, and I emailed the service center guy that jerked me around. The dealership called the very next day, trembling. 

I fought them hard, and I fought Hyundai corporate hard when they called me. Know what I got out of it?

A full tank of gas and a $25 gas card from the dealer, and one payment knocked off my loan agreement by Hyundai corporate. One. I fought to get five - all I got was one. A hollow victory all the way around.

That episode left me shaken. My new car. My fucking new car.

And now a Giant Sequoia has killed the dream. The Hyundai will never be the same. It will never again feel new. The dream is over.

But, what the fuck - Carol and I are going up to Greasy Collision Man early on Thursday (he's a million miles away), then we are going out to breakfast.

Breakfast is something, right? Isn't breakfast something?

Pretty sure breakfast is something.

Easter Morn 2023

 Driving home from Keith's place this morning (I'll explain later).

9 o'clock on an Easter morn. Lost in silent reverie, coffee cup in hand.

Thinking how cool it would be for Jesus to make a surprise appearance in my passenger seat.

When I was a kid I used to hope that on 3 o'clock on Good Friday the sky would suddenly go dark, until thunder exploded and lightning split the sky. I told God that if that happened, I would get religion.

It never did, and I never did.

Anyway, I was hoping this morning that Jesus would appear to counsel me, inspire me, turn me around - get my mind right.

He was a no-show.

However, later on I drove by a digital billboard that advertised "603cremations.com". Seemed kind of weird.

I sincerely hope that was not Jesus' version of counseling.

Last Call (Two Good Friends)

M: "Wild Turkey 81? What the fuck would make you think I'd ever drink Wild Turkey 81?"

H: "Just thought you might like something different.You're always talking about shaking things up."

M: "Look, they make Wild Turkey 101 for a reason - it gets right to the point. It's a problem solver. No fucking bullshit. Clean and green. Effortless. Get it?"

H: "Problem solver? 101 causes problems for you, for Christ sake."

M: "Not from my perspective. 101 solves my biggest problem every fucking day - reality, baby - reality."

H: "You're unemployed, about to get evicted, divorced - you call that solutions?"

M: "Listen, my job sucked, my apartment is a shithole, my wife hated my guts - none of that shit fit anyway, whether I drink or not. So why shouldn't I drink a smile upon my face? Survival mode, baby - survival mode."

H: "I'm worried about your health."

M: "I'm moving to Australia."

H: "What?"

M: "I said I'm moving to Australia."

H: "What the hell are you talking about?"

M: "I'm trying to change the fucking subject, moron! I do not need your fucking lectures."

H: "Fuck it, do what you want. It's last call. What do you want?

M: "Wild Turkey. Neat. 101. And make it a double. And a 16 ounce PBR."

H: "Jesus, you never learn."

M: "Hey, I'm holding back, man - I got a job interview tomorrow and I wanna be sharp."

H: "A job interview? You gotta be kidding me. What kind of job?"

M: "Bartender. At Applebee's. Any fucking moron can be a bartender, baby."

H: "I love you too."

Shiny Cars & Dirty Money

 "I want shiny cars and dirty money, lots of rock and roll, I will live in fame and die in flames, I'm never gettin' old"

From I Wanna Be Somebody, by W.A.S.P.

Talkin' 'Bout Panic

I'm gonna try to write less about myself in here and write more interesting stuff, including fiction, poetry and wry observations.

Just not today.

By the way, I feel cleansed. I was obsessed with using the phrase "wry observations", and now I've gotten it out of my system. Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?

Panic is building to what could very well be a dangerous crescendo. Today is April 4th. 2023 feels like it is screaming by even faster than every other year in my life. Because I am keeping a close watch on it.

Measuring things carefully. I should say measuring "thing" carefully, because the only forward movement I have created is weight loss. Reducing obesity is a good thing for my mind and my body, but I have far more pressing things to deal with.

Huge things with huge consequences, either way. If stasis wins out, I will end 2023 in utter despair - and I will not take that lightly. If change wins out, I will emerge triumphant.

Definitely need a change of venue. This house is smothering me. On my days off, I feel lighter; I try to act on that in positive ways. But the same rooms, the same darkness, the same creaky floors, the same surroundings, the same scenery - trudging upstairs to this room, which is beginning to feel like The Room of Failure.

Shit, man - I need out.

Had a moment of weakness a week ago. Looking around,wondering if we really need to sell this place, wondering if I even have the energy to move - assuming we can find some unsuspecting rube to overpay for this museum. Conclusion - we really need to get out of here. This house represents the ultimate fucking rut, so deep and wide it's starting to feel like a death trap.

2023 panic has an enjoyable quality to it, tantalizingly palpable. It feels like it won't be denied, like if I don't move onwards and upwards my body will just explode, like if I don't wake up I will get my head kicked in.

70 looms. That has a lot to do with it. What the fuck am I gonna do with 70 if I'm still eating Spam?

A voice in my brain whispers "do you really think you can turn your life around at the age of 70? What do you have that you can sell to buy your freedom?"

Well, what other approach can I take? Alone, I would opt for blues and booze. But I owe Carol - some sort of payback for the sadness and loss I have infected her life with.

I owe my soul, for Christ sake - this thriving, thrilling, unique life force that has been breathing through a straw, submerged in a swamp for it's entire existence. I need to supercharge it with cocaine, and liberate it to illuminate the lives of my family before essence is eternally snuffed out.

Think about that. When I'm dead, my soul is gone. This thing that could have brought happiness to me and wonder to friends and family, fucking gone. There will never be another one like it.

I'm talking about panic, baby.

Not TOO Bad

 I'm 69 years old, I've never had my head stove in.

Guess I'm doin' all right.

Weary

I've grown weary of so many things

The absurdity of life really stings 

I'm searching for roads

For some way to go

To give myself hope and some wings

March - A Reckoning

I exercised 20 days in March.

I lost 4 more pounds.

Not a bad month. 

I weighed 198 pounds on January 1, I weighed 186 pounds on April 1st. I have lost 12 pounds in 3 months. That's significant.

Gotta keep it up, gotta ramp it up. It would be nice to feel semi-proud when New England's severely limited good weather rolls around in July and August. To go out in a t-shirt like younger people do, unabashed.

For at least the last seven years, when I go out in warmth I wear a caftan over my body and a modified green trash bag over my head. I cut the eye-holes in the shape of a parallelogram, so that's pretty cool. The get-up has made it difficult to get around, but it does cloak my shame.

Unfortunately, either way, I hear the laughter.

April is a short month so I'm under a lot of pressure. But I'm on a roll with this health shit. I got rhythm. I'm all about rhythm. For a guy who hates rules and budgets and ultimatums, I love to establish rhythm.

First thing I think about when I get up is, when am I gonna exercise today. And what is the best way to fit in two sets. It's part of my DNA in 2023. I have no idea if this discipline is helping my health, health being such a quirky, unpredictable thing - but I'm starting to look marvelous. And that's all that counts.

Remember Billy Crystal as Fernando Lamas? "I would rather look good than to feel good."

An Accounting: I lost four pounds in January, I lost four pounds in February, I lost four pounds in March.

This is beginning to look suspicious..........................