Whiskey!#@*"\=-(;)

 I don't have any whiskey in the house!

How the fuck did that happen???????

Thank god I have tequila.

Look out!!!!!!!!!

The Problem With Me

Just watched a movie called Five Minutes of Heaven.

Raw, intense emotion. 

One line killed me:

"The problem with me is I have all the wrong emotions."

Daddy Got The Job, Kids

They hired me.

Can you believe it? Miscreant and scurrilous dog that I am, it is difficult to believe anybody would hire me to do anything. I just keep fooling them.

So I'm taking another whack at copywriting. And don't give me that "they will hire anybody" bullshit. I put a lot of work into this application, I demonstrated my talent and they hired me. They are not going to hire anybody that embarrasses them. My job is to make their clients happy.

I won't be getting rich any time soon; I have to write a lot and make my bones before the pay increases. So I'll be concentrating on volume, which I have no problem doing. I can write and write and write. I mean, I enjoy between 3 and 4 days off a week - ample time to get this thing up and running. I'd rather spend that time drinking whiskey and watching mob movies, but this is the corner I have painted myself into. So be it.

There is potential to make respectable bucks. I have the talent, and when I get enough experience, and learn the ins and outs of the game, I can make a decent wage. I am supremely motivated by the need for survival and respect, and the overwhelming drive to quit my fucking job and never work another menial job again.

Christ, man - I "semi-retired" in 2016, which in hindsight was a terrible mistake, but what the fuck, I was desperate to get a little piece of my life back after 40 years of miserable full-time employment.  On top of taking a sizable reduction in social security checks, I have worked three miserable jobs over the last 7 years - jobs a fucking monkey could do. A goddamn part-time clerk in a thrift store, a part-time "box office associate" in a theatre, and a part-time permit tech for the city. My pay ranged from 7 cents an hour to a top pay of 18 cents an hour. Teenagers laughed at me.

I'm looking for a little dignity. I am looking for a professional job worthy of respect. I am looking to work from home so I can avoid other humans. I am looking to make use of whatever limited talent I have, rather than piercing my heart with a samurai sword working brainless fucking jobs.

I am condemned to work eternally. My gravestone will read "He fucked up. He just fucked up."

Given that sad and soul-crushing fact, I am trying to make my life and Carol's life better. We deserve to worry less.

I'm trying.

I'm trying.

Pick a Side

 If a man sips 101 proof liquor at 9:50 on a Saturday morning on his way to work, it could be argued that he has reached a significant level of independence and individuality.

It could also be argued that he is fucking insane.

Pick a side.

He Did Not Care

Joe sat at the kitchen table sipping on an ice cold Miller High Life, thinking.

Beer. What a concept. He started drinking at the age of 15. Schlitz. 4 beers on Friday night, 4 beers on Saturday night, leaving four beers (which he hid in the basement) available for next weekend.

Before long Joe was drinking a six pack each night, then a six of 16 oz beers, then a six and a quart; you get the picture. He loved it. It was enjoyable, and it led to fun times with his equally irreverent friends.

Schlitz segued to Bud, for which he had a passion for a long time. Along the way he dug Tuborg Gold, Miller Genuine Draft, Pabst, Corona, and.........Coors. Man, when Joe first started drinking you couldn't get Coors east of the Rockies. Absolute truth. So when friends came back from a trip with trunkfuls of Coors, it was a goddamn event. Party time!

When he got older he made the obligatory journey through craft beers, IPA's etc, but he never really dug them. Except for Blue Moon. Loved it. Still does. With an orange slice. A long way from "Don't fruit the beer", which is what he and his friends always said to the bartender when they started in with Corona. Fruit in your beer? No fucking way.

But Joe was not thinking about beer. He was thinking with astonishment about what his life had become. A fucking dead end. How? Who the hell knows. Life is a steamroller, baby - hesitate and it will roll right over you.

Suddenly, Joe heard a strange sound. A wail, for Christ sake. Sounded like death and it pierced his soul. He got up and looked through the window to see his neighbor, Ralph, sitting on his back steps with his arms wrapped around himself, rocking back and forth, just cutting loose with his grief.

Ralph was a sad man, defeated by life, with no options ahead of him, lost, lonely and demoralized. He had been talking shit lately, but Joe chalked it up to the deadly combination of alcohol and hopelessness. But as he looked at Ralph he knew he was seeing true death, the death of Ralph's soul; Joe could practically sense it deteriorating in front of him and taking Ralph's life force with it. 

Joe thought maybe he should walk over, try to find a way to console Ralph, but what the hell can you do when another human being loses the battle, when life crushes every source of life in the body and every hopeful thought in the mind? What is left? The vast emptiness of a meaningless life and the eternal torture of wasted opportunity.

Joe stayed put. But Ralph's wail was persistent, so utterly hopeless, expanding the normal limits of pain, and contagious. It pummeled Joe's mind and infected his dying soul. It opened him up to his own reality.

A fucking dead end.

Joe slid down the wall, but his tears beat his ass to the floor. He sat with his back to the wall, wrapped his arms around his beaten body and began to rock. And wail. An almost inhuman expression of pain, grief, and anger. He did not know he could make a sound like this. It had been trapped in his soul for the past 40 years; the intensity of release was shocking.

Joe's sobs racked his body, alternating with ear splitting shrieks, as he rocked back and forth.

He did not know what was next.

He did not care.

Family KNOWS You

You cannot go into a social situation determined to be someone else.

If you don't know who you are, if you don't know how to just air out your soul and be yourself in thought, word, and deed - if you act, you are doomed to fail. You cannot be someone else.

Ironically, it's the acting that got you into this situation in the first place. You have to act to survive. Projecting complete confidence at work, pretending that your mind is healthy and alive and free of worry and self-doubt - you've been doing that your whole life. Because no one wants to hear about your problems or see your weaknesses revealed. If outsiders acknowledge your weaknesses, it exposes a crack in their own facade. So they double down on their faux tough-guy act.

Truthfully, acting for an audience at work or in practically any normal social situation is easy. Because nobody gives a shit. We all notice the tells in others that give away the truth, that make it painfully obvious a performance is at hand. But we go along with it. What else are you going to do? Call somebody out? If you do, they will call you out. That's how the world works. That's why genuineness is almost impossible to come by in life.

Family is the problem. Family knows you. They have been around you for decades, they have seen your weaknesses on full display. They see what passes for your personality, a persona distorted by the evil misonceptions of your mind. The truth your mind knows, the lies your mind tries to pass off as reality. They are witness to the struggle.

As you struggle with what you project, if you decide that enough is enough, decide to take on a new approach - "this is who I will be around my family" - you will fail, and your family will see through the act. They will wonder "What the hell is he doing? Why does he appear so uncomfortable? Why is he making me feel uncomfortable?"

You have to know yourself so you can be yourself. Simple, right?

Nope. None of us are living the life we want to. We are forced to adopt roles, to pretend to be happy, praying that pretend happiness will lead to real happiness. Impossible.

The torture comes in when you vacate your soul, which happens early on in life. When you abandon your essence. Your soul will not remain empty. Evil moves right in. Evil thoughts fill the void, poison your truth, obscure your perspective, and ruin your life.

You have to find a way to know yourself. Then you have to find the strength to live your truth.

That is the only road to happiness.

You have to find a way to be genuine with your family. They are the ony ones who count. Co-workers are irrelevant, their opinions mean nothing. But if you cannot be genuine with your family, what the hell else is there?

You cannot live alone in your mind because your mind will sabotage you as easily as any enemy. Your family is real, they are blood, they count.

Do not waste the precious time you spend with family. Don't act for them. Give them genuineness.

Find a way.

Makes Sense To Me

 "Why does man kill? He kills for food. And not only food: frequently there must be a beverage."

Woody Allen

ReInventing Myself

I am working hard to reinvent myself.

I am a writer. That's all I got. I'm trying to break into the world of copywriting for real. I've done it before and got paid for it, so I know this is not a pipe dream. The ultimate goal is to segue into creative writing.

Too ambitious for a 69 year old? I have no choice.

I wish I could collect every thought that goes through my head when I sit in the recliner. Some dark and self-destructive, some delusional and self-serving, some realistic and hopeful. I should corral these mind meanderings and publish them in a book, so you can render a final judgment on whether I am a candidate for straitjacket therapy, or a human being who has a genuine shot at redemption.

Sitting in the sloth chair recently, and my reality flashed across my brain like a glaring neon sign: I will never be able to retire. I knew this subconsciously, but admitting it was too painful. And humiliating. So my brain took over and did it for me.

Short of winning the lottery, I will not be able to afford it. The work I am pursuing will enable us to have a little more security, hopefully. And at least I'll be able to do it from home. But unless somebody pays me $10 million to write a white paper about the subtle joys of the HVAC business, I will be chipping away for the rest of my life. A sobering truth.

Anyway, I did my homework. Found a reputable copywriting website to apply to. I spent somewhere around 15 hours over a period of a couple of weeks putting everything together to complete a thorough application. I had to write articles, provide information, answer questions, take a test - this shit is the real deal. Christ, some of the test questions were written in a copywriting language foreign to me - I had to research the topic just to have a shot at answering the question correctly. I blew a lot of them.

But I tried. I fucking tried.

And that's the point. Getting old is not for the weak. I am trying to make myself strong, to fight back. I am exercising like a fiend to reintroduce health to my body; I am working hard to find a new way to survive financially. I am not going out a loser. At least not without fighting back.

I submitted the application yesterday; they take up to a week to approve or reject.

I will not blow smoke up your ass, or my own. I waited until I did all the work before talking about this. If I get rejected you'll hear about it. And I will move on. If I get hired, you'll hear about it.

I am a dreamer, but the life I created for myself is biting back. I painted myself into a corner; I am trying to fight my way out of it.

There are always consequences to your actions, and life is not gentle about making a point.

Nelson

 Attending the wake of my friend Nelson this afternoon.

This will be difficult. Since yesterday it feels like I'm wearing a concrete cape. Time is suspended, thoughts of Nelson blanket my mind, rendering me almost incapable to function.

I don't want to do this. I want it to be over.

I got directions to the funeral home, an hour and a half drive. To Massachusetts, where I hate to drive. I exercised. Took a drive to vacuum my car and gas it up. We're picking up Carolina along the way. I took a shower. Now I'm sitting here.

Waiting. Waiting to leave.

Every time I feel bad or hurting or overwhelmed, I think about Nelson's girlfriend, Mary Beth. His daughter Kim. His son Christopher. His grandson Mason. His brothers Robert, Donald, Teneyke, and Thorne. His son-in-law Greg.

They are in for a tough day.

My heart breaks for them.

Russell Brand? Are You Serious?

I am reading Recovery - Freedom From Our Addictions, by Russell Brand.

It's blowing my mind.

I am not currently addicted to anything - except self-loathing. A sense of unworthiness. What attracted me to the book was the concept that anything can be an addiction - including low self-esteem.

Brand explains AA's 12 step program - which he is intimately acquainted with - from his own perspective and his own experiences. Step by step. Brand is a drug addict, an alcoholic, a sex addict, and has all kinds of problems with self-image.

He starts by re-interpreting the God thing. There is a lot of God in AA's program - something which immediately makes me uncomfortable. He interprets God as your own higher self, your elevated consciousness after you have identified and, hopefully, transcended your weaknesses/warped thought processes. Although, he does emphasize that the process is indeed day by day, for the rest of your life.

The core of Brand's message is that our real selves are buried under the self we have created, and that fact is causing us great pain, which leads to addictions/ cyclical destructive behavior. The self we have created is based on false perceptions and bad experiences, but we keep defaulting to the thought processes of that false self and we keep failing. So you have to identify the thought processes that drive you to your addictions. And then change them.

He gives examples from his own life, some on such a petty level that I strongly identify with them.

His wife was pregnant, she asked to use the car to get to a doctor's appointment. Brand said yes and took a cab to a business meeting. And along the way was whining in his head about how inconvenient the situation was for him. Shit, man - I do that all the time. Selfish, whiny behavior in situations where I have a chance to be a saint. The point is to examine your reaction/thoughts and try to short circuit them next time around.

He talks about how he can be sitting quietly, comfortably, and happily at home............until his mind sabotages his peace with worry and imagined bad situations until there is no more peace. I do that all the time.

There are a lot more heavier situations and discussions in the book than what I chose to highlight. There is a lot of meat here. And Brand brings his unique perspective to it all. Plus he makes you laugh along the way.

For reasons I have not fully articulated here, this book is really resonating with me. I have been focusing on the thoughts in my head since the day I started reading it. Focusing on them and dissecting them and making a mental note to do better. His book is the inspiration behind the post I recently wrote about my Dad.

Once again, my mind is vibrating at the speed of thought, with hope, and good intentions to make the changes that will make my life better. Using the tools Brand has placed within reach.

I'll give it a shot.

And I hear you saying "But Joe - what about The Four Agreements? What about Eckhart Tolle? What about James Clear? What about.................."

I know.

I know.

Giorgio's Dream

Giorgio was sitting in the offices of the Small Business Administration, talking excitedly to the loan officer about his business proposal. 

He was asking for a $250,000 loan.

The loan officer appeared to be uncomfortable.

Giorgio continued.

"No parent wants their kids to grow up and leave the house. Kids are magic. Almost as valuable as pets. It hurts when they leave. You've invested so much time and money and effort and love over the years, and then they suddenly get independent and go out and live their own lives. Just like that. Do you have kids?"

The loan officer looked at his watch, cleared his throat and said "Yes."

Giorgio continued.

"I have devised a Perpetual Dependent System designed to gently break the will of your kids and keep them with you until you die. Then they're on their own. It's a good idea to designate god-parents, people who will take their ultimate responsibility seriously. Including passing it on down to their own kids or younger relatives in the event that becomes necessary.

I have a chair that is plush, with cupholders, and an arm big enough to hold two dinner plates. It also has a chest strap designed for general restraint, and straps to be used as arm restraints when necessary. 

I invented a gentle electro-shock device to adminster electricity to the brain, in small doses at low levels. Over time this therapy will destroy all independent thought on the part of the child until you no longer need to restrain them. Then you will have the perfect child. Eternally. I need $250,000 to initiate the manufacturing process."

The loan office pressed the alarm button secreted under his desk. And said "My colleague will be here in a minute so he can review your business plan and move this process along to its conclusion."

Giorgio was elated.

The security guard walked in, billy club in hand. When Giorgio leaped to his feet, the guard clubbed him into unconsciousness.

An investigation ensued. It led to the discovery of Giorgio's two children, dead on the kitchen floor of his studio apartment, electrical burns evident on their shaved temples.

Giorgio was tried, convicted and sentenced to death.

Eight years later he was electrocuted.

Justice delayed, but delightfully appropriate.

My Dad

Today is my father's 103rd birthday. Unfortunately he died in 1999 at the age of 79.

I've done a lot of posturing in here, talking about how I never really loved my parents all that much because they never loved me all that much. About how I cried very little, if at all, when each of them died.

Sounds tough, sounds, aloof - sounds vindictive. And it's pretty much true.

But I'm feeling forgiving today.

My father was born in Isernia, Italy in 1920. His father brought him over here when he was six, I believe. My father could not speak English. They threw him into school anyway. I know that the things being done for children today are for their own psychological well being, and it's a good thing in theory. However, I think it goes too far.

We are creating a soft society. A soft society is a vulnerable society. We are pampering their emotions. When they are adults nobody will give a shit about their emotions and it will hurt a lot.

I believe my father's early childhood in this country shaped him. That, and his father's strictness. It made him tough. And my father was definitely tough.

He grew up to eventually own his own business. He went from being a kid that could not speak English in a strange new country, to becoming a successful man, a successful business man. That's a long hard road, baby.

He drove Cadillacs and Mercedes Benz. Smoked cigars, played bocce with the boys on Friday night, loved to bowl. He drank Manhattans. He ate pickled pigs feet and quahogs. He worked in the basement a lot in his free time. He was good at building things and fixing things.

He was intimidating.

He gave me a good life. A pampered life. Bought me cars, paid for my college education, took the family on fancy vacations, and gave me a job when I graduated college working for him.

The emotional side of it was not what I wanted it to be, but I feel forgiving today.

I was vindicated as a father myself when he told me that I was a good father. Those words forever ring in my ears. They meant something to me.

He worshipped my sons. I'm glad he got to experience being a grandfather. It revealed a side of him that I feel he kept under close wraps. I'm glad my sons got to know him.

My father lived his life his way. His approach was shaped by his experiences and he never had it easy. My life is a cream puff by way of comparison.

He was a man. He made mistakes. That does not give me the right to minimize his presence in my life as my father. A sacred title. Dad.

I did love him. My relationship with my sons is consciously patterned to be a rebellion against the way my father was with me. I think I made the right choice.

But I know that my Dad did love me too.

And that is a lot.

Unavoidable

 I can't hear my train a comin' - yet - but I sure as hell feel the vibration in the tracks.

No Lightning?

Consumed a few chunks of the French Open.

Not enough, but whatever I could squeeze in. Caught Novak Djokovic vs Carlos Alcaraz, and Novak vs Ruud in their entirety. I LOVE tennis. Shoot it into my veins every chance I get.

Djokovic dominated. He is a tennis Deity. I miss Rafael Nadal though - miss him sorely. He is rehabbing, trying desperately to get healthy for one more run at perfection next year.

Tom Brady was in the audience at the finals between Djokovic and Ruud. When Novak won he made his way into the stands to hug his wife, his kids, his parents, his coaches. Brady walked over to shake his hand.

I was waiting for lightning to come crashing out of the sky when their hands touched. Two Gods dwarfing every other human being in the building. Two elders of their respective sports who achieve at unimaginable levels.

There was no lightning.

So I stuck my tongue in a light socket.

Anything At All Would Be Better

 "There's not a person in the world who really likes himself the way he is; anything at all would be better for him than the way he is."

From Alnilam, by James Dickey

Jim Montgomery Must Be Rolling Over In His Grave (He's Not Dead)

The Vegas Golden Knights won the Stanley Cup last night.

I love them because they destroyed the Florida Panthers.

Bruce Cassidy coaches the Golden Knights. He got fired as coach of the Bruins a year ago, after coaching them for 5 and 1/2 seasons. He led them to the playoffs 5 times where they lost five times.

He was fired in 2022. The Bruins said "See you later, Loser - we don't need your underachieving ass in Boston." Coaching is harsh, baby. They hired Jim Montgomery.

Montgomery led the Bruins to a record shattering season, doing things no other team had ever done before. They were magnificent, beautiful, and magical to watch. I laughed, I cried, I cheered, I exulted. 

They lost in the first round of the playoffs this year. The first round. To the Florida Panthers.

Cassidy is smiling today (through a nasty hangover, no doubt), Montgomery is shaking his head. Makes you wonder how the world works, doesn't it? I mean the Vegas Knights did not win solely because of Cassidy's coaching; the Bruins did not lose solely because of Montgomery's coaching. There's a hell of a lot more to it than that.

Fate, maybe. I don't know. Jesus? Not sure he is a hockey fan, considering how peaceable he is.

I just think it's cool that Cassidy got his cup after a long and challenging coaching career. And I think it is confusing that Montgomery did not get his after achieving perfection.

Dig this: the Golden Knights are based in Las Vegas, and they won at home last night. It does not get any better than that. They got to party last night in the Sin Capital of the World. Must have been insane. The players were itching to get off the ice as they were being interviewed - it was so obvious. 

I'm surprised no journalists were killed in the rush.

Greatest Quote Ever

 Jesus, at the Last Supper, to the waiter: "Separate checks, please."

Caleb's Mom

Ten year old Caleb looked up from his dirt pile in the front yard just in time to see Old Man Joe run screaming by. Caleb's mouth dropped open. Then he yelled "Mom!!!!!!!!!"

Joe was wearing ragged jeans, filthy sneakers and a torn t-shirt, and he was running as fast as he possibly could. Wide-eyed.

As fast as he possibly could was not fast at all; Joe was 69 years old and worn down to a nub. Caleb thought of him as ancient but, really, 69 is not officially archaic in this day and age. Still, it was definitely too old to be running at maximum effort.

Just five minutes ago Joe was sitting at the kitchen table paying bills. His wife had died 6 months ago. Suddenly he was getting a close-up look at their "finances" and he was feeling none too proud. Or comfortable.

Neither Joe nor his wife had life insurance. In addition, thanks to the generosity of this country's social security system, Joe had no access to her benefits. His hands were shaking.

He was introduced to reality when she died, and the situation had gotten progressively worse over time. Joe still had a mortgage to pay, and he had no idea how he could keep doing that and still afford food.

His kids were well off, they could afford to help him out of this desperation. That is if they were still talking to him. Which they weren't. And he wasn't going to beg.

He was lost, alone, and bewildered. Cornered at a time in life where he had zero options.

Joe stood up from the kitchen table and walked out the side door. And started running. And screaming. There was no conscious decision to do so - his feet just started moving, and a scream of despair parted his lips involuntarily; it was impossible to silence the pain and the fear. It wasn't just inside of him, it was him.

The screaming did not last long, Caleb was the only one to hear it. Joe was quickly out of breath and his heart was just hammering his chest.

But he kept running.

A Jack Lemmon movie popped into his head. The one where Lemmon is at his wits end and jumps onto an exercise bike and tries to pedal himself into a fatal heart attack.

Joe thought he could do that. He thought he could run himself to death. Why the hell not? He had no solutions, zero hope, no options, and not one person in the world gave a damn about him.

His breathing became ragged and there was pain in his ribs, but he kept moving. Joe looked like an escapee from an insane asylum. Long hair whipping around, wild eyes bugging out of his skull, loose clothes flapping in the breeze, arms flailing wildly around his body, slowing down, slowing down, staggering but determined.

Suddenly pain exploded in his chest. Pain so sharp, so sudden, that there was no mistaking its intent. Joe took two more steps before falling face down on the side of the road, raising up a cloud of dirt. He bounced once and lay still.

A few minutes later, Caleb's mother, with Caleb in the car, pulled up behind Joe's body. "Stay here," she told Caleb. She walked around the front of the car, gasped, and called 911.

As she waited she stared intently at such a sad scene, and cried. Joe had been a sad man, always, even when his wife was alive. It seemed like true sadness started when his kids moved out. The way he walked, the things he said, and, especially, the blank, hopeless look in his eyes. As if he were staring out at the distance when he talked to you, instead of looking into your eyes.

There was defeat in the posture of his body as it lay by the side of the road.

Caleb's mom wished she had gotten to know Joe better.

Frazzled (Urgently)

I kicked up the intensity level in 2023.

I am determined to change my life. More importantly, I am determined to grab a hold of my life, to make it my own. As a result, everything around me, everything that involves me, touches me or impacts me is white hot. I am so wound up I wouldn't be surprised if I clubbed a customer at work over the head with an office chair. Amongst other possibilities.

Nelson died a week ago. Way too damn young. I am about to turn 70 but, subconsciously, I don't really expect to die today. I expect another 10 or 15 years before the Grim Reaper wraps his bony fucking fingers around my throat. Of course it's ridiculous to "expect" anything. Death shows up when it wants to show up. Maybe I will die today. All I can do is keep on keeping on.

Nelson's death shook me up. Cranked the intensity level up another notch or two. My mind has been in overdrive this past week, and change cannot come fast enough. I just caught a bit of conversation between Deepak Chopra and Bill Maher. Death figured prominently in the discussion. Chopra is 76, Maher is 67. You cannot help but think about death when that's where you are in life. Deepak has an accepting approach towards death, Maher describes death as a monster chasing him.

I agree heartily with Bill Maher, but a lot of that comes from my opinion of my life. Would I be less afraid if I felt I achieved fulfillment in my life? Seems to make sense but I really don't know. Maher is very successful, but it is obvious that he thinks about death a lot and is afraid of it. We all have to deal with it in our own ways. The worst thing would be to allow the fear of death to cause paralysis.

At least I am trying, I am pushing, I am searching. I haven't given up.

I am not satisfied. I am not proud. I am not fulfilled. Maybe this is what fuels me. I am putting a lot of effort into 2023. Exercising, obviously. But I am also doing a lot of work behind the scenes that I am not telling you about. Things that I hope will lead to making some money from writing.

We'll see.

The mind/body connection came up in the discussion between Maher and Chopra. My mind sabotages my body, and undercuts forward movement. But I have noticed this year, with all the exercise, that my mind seems to be analyzing a bit more clearly and steering me in the right direction. Focusing more on committing to a specific path and giving it hell.

2023, one way or another, will be a year of change. Period. I gurantee it. I cannot waste any more time.

Death is a big part of the motivation behind the intensity.

Dead Parents

Dead parents are inevitable.

But

I don't want to be one.

I Could Be

 I could have been Weird Al Yankovic.

I could be rich.

I could be retired.

Transference of Degradation

 "A hurtful act is the transference to others of the degradation which we bear in ourselves."

Simone Weil

If only we humans could understand this.............................

No Time

The realization was sudden and shattering. 

He looked at his hands without recognition; they were not his. His footsteps rang hollow, his feet felt uncomfortable on the floor. The creaks were strange, the rolls and dips disorienting. His eyes did not believe what they took in - whose house was this?

The food he cooked was tasteless and unimaginative, the whiskey that slipped past his lips, beyond the numbing, accomplished nothing. Music was boring, books collected dust, movies were repetitive.

The front yard was unfamiliar. It was not his front yard. Who did it belong to?

After decades of insensibility, his eyes were opened - he realized he had given it all away. His life was foreign to him. Nothing fit. 

He did not recognize himself in the mirror, which spit back the truth at him. Unimaginable horror.

How did this happen? How had he lost himself so thoroughly?

Repulsed, he clawed at his skin, he had to get out, he had to start over. 

But there was no time. No time to get back. No time to recover his soul.

No time.

Me Too (Sometimes In The Mirror)

 "I see men assassinated around me every day. I walk through rooms of the dead, streets of the dead, cities of the dead; men without eyes, men without voices; men with manufactured feelings and standard reactions; men with newspaper brains, television souls, and high school ideas."

Charles Bukowski

May - A Reckoning

I exercised 24 days in May. Pretty damn good.

Weight Loss: ZERO. ZERO

I didn't lose a pound, I didn't gain a pound.

That is a defeat. I am working hard and I crave the reward of a friendly scale. Instead I get a slap in the face.

Of course reality is rearing its ugly head. "Hey, man- you are 69 years old. You are not supposed to lose weight. You are supposed to get older, slower, and fatter each and every day - that is the natural order of things. Who the hell are you to be looking for dignity at this time in your life? Lie down content in your obesity and take it like a man."

Not gonna happen.

Talk to me on July 1.

Ciao, baby.

Life Is................

Creaky floors and doors that stick, beer guts, dirty ashtrays, unreliable cars, repair bills, flat tires, broken promises and embarrassing moments, vicious hangovers, justified hangovers, compromises and unrealistic justifications, extreme self-loathing and fragile self-love, relentless bills and erratic income, endless house repairs, isolated home improvements, hurtful words, regrets, failures, drunken gaiety, genuine happiness (limited quantities), dead dreams, numbness, weakness, self-doubt, pain, leaky faucets, broken glasses, misdirection, erratic focus, lack of purpose, and, hopefully - love.