Who Will It Be

 This is an exciting time of year.

How many celebrity deaths will occur in the next two days to pad the 2024 total?

Christmas Day 2024

There are too many people waking up today with Merry Fucking Christmas on their lips.

Drug addicts, alcoholics, Stage IV cancer patients.

And everyday broken people. People living miserable lives with no chance of happiness. People who will never retire, who will work until they die. And die in poverty.

People whose dreams have been shattered by circumstance or by their own stupidity. 

People who never had dreams, who recognized life for what it is and kept their heads down and plodded through their existence like donkeys.

Your garden variety humans for whom life was never a miracle, but drudgery, a road littered with razor blades, and hidden bombs triggered by tragic missteps resulting from incomprehension, despair, and tunnel vision.

Zombies who feel nothing because they shut their emotions down long ago. Emotions that never served them but to disappoint.

Cold, lonely people indistinguishable from corpses.

People to whom Christmas lights are no different than spotlights in a prison yard.

Merry Fucking Christmas.

I am not one of them. I have a lot, more than I need. Maybe more than I deserve. That possibility exists. I am only partially grateful because I have not evolved. Still, it's Christmas morn and I am somewhat buoyant.

Why not? Got me a loving family, both close to the heart and extended. And a grandson. A GRANDSON. Friends. New home, new community. Possibilities.

I am not where I want to be, not even close to who I thought I'd be.

But I am. I feel. I breathe. I get around.

A magic day. Dinner with the family. And time to reflect upon it all tonight when I get home and settle into the recliner with Patsy and Emmy Lou in my lap, Carol on the couch next to me, lights off, Christmas tree lit and the TV performing its relentless lobotomy.

Merry Christmas.

Wondering

 Today is Christmas Eve. Tomorrow is Christmas day.

And everyone is wondering.....Christ, he's not gonna write that empty driveways/crowded driveways drivel again, is he?

Water of Life

 Whiskey is never wrong.

Here's Hoping

 My Christmas won't be complete until I rescue a family's lost dog.

Reasons Why

 I'm lazy, and I don't give a shit about much of anything.

I care about my family. That's it.

An honest assessment that explains a lot.

You Know It

 Michael Madsen is the King of the sarcastic, tough guy smile.

A Day Late, A Dollar Short

 "Hell is truth seen too late."

Thomas Hobbs

Give Me Back My Soul

He writhed in agony on the floor and screamed desperately as his soul began to leave his body. The soul too screeched in despair as it unwillingly wrenched itself free and began to drift away. Neither was done with the other, they needed more time, so much more time together to justify their existence, to make amends, but the clock had run out, in part as a consequence of misguided decisions he made decades ago. His arm shot up as he desperately reached to grab his spirit in an anguished final attempt to keep body and soul united, but it brushed the tips of his fingers and floated upwards unwillingly.

Tears streamed down his cheeks in the seconds he had left, as his mind recoiled at the realization of wasted time and wasted opportunities. 

He could not defend his life as it dissolved into oblivion.

Solid Gold Advice

 Don't get old - it's a mistake.

Focus

 Striving to fail.

Just To Cheer You Up

The Ongoing Battles With My Demons, by Patricia A Fleming

I peek through blinds that are tightly drawn,

shocked by the glow of the breaking dawn.

I shun the brilliance of another day.

Enslaved and entombed, I stay hidden away.

The night was long as I lay awake,

Anxiety choking like a poisonous snake.

My self-hatred grows like some malady

That I pray will soon be the death of me.

Being hated and scorned is painful indeed,

And that love can be torture, we all must concede,

But to be ignored and forgotten can vanquish one's heart

Until it's in pieces, just shattered apart.

To feel non-existent is so hard to abide,

When you know that your heart is still beating inside.

And how do you save your sinking soul,

When you feel yourself plummeting into that hole?

My dreams don't provide any rest or relief;

They only replay my regrets and my grief.

I honestly don't know how I came to this place,

But it's clear to me now that there is no escape.

You may call me weak and lowly at best.

I'm trapped in self-pity, I must confess.

I long for some quiet, just a moment of peace,

But my negative voice refuses to cease.

My greatest enemy resides within,

But how can I battle myself and win?

I find this a callous, duplicitous life,

Not worth any effort to fight the good fight.

Surviving, instead of living each day,

Sheltered inside sturdy walls I create.

Fleeting moments when hope will linger so nigh,

But those feelings of wretchedness still once again rise.

Getting through every moment and each empty day,

Feeling lost and panicked in this chaotic maze.

Still not giving up and not giving in,

With my greatest fear being that it won't ever end.

What Would You Do?

You're watching a television series, one you would not normally watch.

As an experiment. The characters are quirky and vulnerable and achingly sensitive. Definitely not mainstream. And totally open about it. You typically prefer tough characters who relish violent revenge.

But right now you are in a strange place in your head. Unsure. Self-questioning. A bit shaky.

And you practically fall out of your chair as you realize that maybe these characters are a reflection of who you really are. Maybe there's a message here. A sign. A prophecy. 

It hits you with skull shattering force that maybe your lifetime act of pretending to be tough and in control has been a horrible mistake. A massive miscalculation that has destroyed your self-confidence (ironically) and beat the shit out of your liver. You are a naturally sensitive, deeply sensitive, overwhelmingly empathetic guy. Maybe if you had worn your vulnerability on your sleeve, you would have lived a more satisfying, fulfilling, and honest life. You might have been happy.

This thought hits you so hard it leaves you shaking in the recliner. 

What would you do?

Can you make that change? Now? This far down the road, this many lies in?

If you do, you might find peace. If you don't, you will shrivel up and die. Those are the choices. And here you are, barely two years away from the average life expectancy of one such as you. How strong are you? How honest are you? How frightened are you?

What would you do?

Words To Live By

 "Hiya, kids. Here is an important message from your Uncle Bill. Don't buy drugs..............................Become a pop star, and they give you them for free!"

Billy Mack, from Love Actually.

Merry Christmas

 "People should either be caressed or crushed. If you do them minor damage they will get their revenge; but if you cripple them there is nothing they can do. If you need to injure someone, do it in such a way that you do not have to fear their vengeance."

Niccolo Machiavelli

Excellent advice.

Machiavelli lived from 1469-1527. He lived in Italy as a diplomat, author, philosopher, and historian during the Italian Renaissance. His most famous work is a political treatise titled The Prince.

Niccolo claimed that his experience and reading of history demonstrated that politics has always involved deception, treachery, and crime. He encouraged rulers to engage in evil when political necessity requires it and argued that successful reformers of states should not be blamed for killing other leaders who could block change.

Some consider it an honest description of political reality, others describe it as a how-to manual explaining how would-be tyrants should seize and maintain power. Some scholars, even today, consider Machiavelli a "teacher of evil."

Don't be naive. These words are an honest description of political reality. Today. In America.

The last time Don Whoreleon (thanks Jimmy Kimmel) ran for president he was licking putin's balls in an interview with Bill O'Reilly. O'Reilly said "But he's a killer." The Commander-In-Thief (thanks Jimmy Kimmel) said "There are a lot of killers. You think our country's so innocent?"

There was an uproar of outrage. Problem is he was speaking the truth.

This country kills, it supports dictators it considers beneficial to our interests then double-crosses them if it doesn't work out, it lies to the people, it hides facts from the people, it cheats the people and keeps them in their place. Politicians do NOT look out for the best interests of their constituents. 

People have figured that out. That's how Fiberace (thanks Jimmy Kimmel) got elected. Twice.

You don't have the control over your life that you think you do. Unless you have a lot of money. Money is the great equalizer. Most of us don't have enough money to afford even Spam more than once a week. The other six days, it's cat food.

As low wage-earners we cede control of our lives to politicans, bankers, and vicious corporate executives, none of whom give a damn whether we live or die. They shit on us and force us to clean up the mess.

That's why Christmas is such a wonderful time of year. You can get drunk and people forgive you. Your perception of reality gets rosy until you are puking up Christmas dinner on 12/26. But for a few hours, life does not seem to be that bad.

The opiate of the masses. It is what we are allowed.

So listen, I truly want you to have a magnificent Christmas in 2024. I really do. Dig your family, drink excessively, and laugh a lot. We are told incessantly to "live in the moment." Good advice. But most moments wallow in cesspools. Christmas is sweet magnificance. A rare exception.

Merry Christmas, all!

And to all, a good night.

Frightening

 My brain has truly short-circuited.

I am temporarily unable to feel gratitude.

Pay Attention

 "We're living in weird times, Streak. I bet forty percent of the country wouldn't mind firing up the ovens as long as the smokestacks are blowing downwind."

From A Private Cathedral, by James Lee Burke

Keep that in mind as you navigate the next four years.

History Bears This Out

 "There's enough evil in the human heart to incinerate the earth."

From A Private Cathedral, by James Lee Burke

Empty Driveways

We live in a small community.

I look out my kitchen window and see houses and driveways one after the other.

On the day before Thanksgiving, Thanksgiving Day, and the day after Thanksgiving, most of those driveways were empty.

This is a 55+ community and many people here are grandparents. Empty driveways are a sign of happy people - visiting their children, loving on their grandchildren. I am happy to see so many empty driveways.

Perspective changes as you age - your life gets more focused as time slips away and jobs become less important or non-existent. With less distractions it's easier to seek out happiness, and critical to try.

We have lived here for a year and met many of the 55+ citizens. We like them for the most part; a majority of us are in the same place in life. Parents, grandparents, retirees, part-time jobs - a slower pace and time to reflect. Doesn't matter if you're 70 or 85 -  we're in the same place except for the loudness of the ticking of the clock. 

Today and tomorrow people here will be getting back home and instantaneously reminiscing about Thanksgiving and laughing about the fun they had. Feeling comforted in the love they experienced, a love that carries some weight. The love of family, uncritical and accepting. Smooth and easy. A love that can heal, or soothe the pain and challenges that life delivers no matter how old you are.

If I walked through here knocking on doors and asking "How was your Thanksgiving?" I would be invited in, directed to a comfortable chair, and handed a drink. My hosts would then tell me about how they visited their kids and held their grandkids, they would be smiling and laughing and it would become contagious - their happiness would become my happiness.

It would be a pure and soul-sustaining moment.

I might not have felt the power of all this years ago; maybe empty driveways would just have been empty driveways.

But I am older and in a much different place, physically and psychologically - emotionally. The things I care about, the things that mean anything to me, the things that capture my attention, are more meaningful. They bring warmth to my heart and oxygen to my soul. They give me a reason to live and they keep me alive.

I like where I'm at.

Empty driveways. Love. The cycle of life.

The sensitivity and perspective that comes with age are powerful.

Life sustaining.

Crowded Driveways

The people next door are trapped.

They cannot afford the rent of this place, and they cannot sell their house because no one else wants to pay exorbitant rent.

I met them in the spring when they were out for a walk. At the time I was talking to anyone I met so I could get to know people.

The husband had been through a series of serious health issues and could no longer work. And he was shuttling back and forth to medical appointments endlessly. His wife works part time. They told me they were forced to dip into their savings to survive. They tried to sell their house for six or eight months but got nowhere. Despair, frustration, and fear came off of them in waves. It hurt me.

But Wednesday, Thursday and Friday this week - Thanksgiving week - their driveway has been crowded. And there have been kids around the kitchen table.

Our houses are very close but we don't bother - them or us - to raise or lower the blinds all the way. Too bothersome. Still we maintain our privacy. But when I climb into or out of my recliner I see motion peripherally - not a lot because the couple are not scampering around the house. But on Wednesday I was aware of a lot of activity - I glanced and saw kids gathered 'round. Grandkids, I assume.

It occurred to me that this couple are ecstatic. Filled with love and appreciation. Listening to laughter as if it was music. Preparing meals, playing games, eating ice cream when they probably rarely eat dessert -  doing the little things that turn out to be the most important things you can do to make a life worthwhile.

I imagine their kids and grandkids sweeping away the anxiety of their current lot in life and allowing them to be human - to feel pure happiness without reservation or worry. The kind of happiness that fills a heart to bursting.

Today is Friday, and one of the cars belonging to the couple next door is parked in the overflow lot. The kids and grandkids must still be here.

I am so happy for them. I imagine them banking this happiness, these good feelings, in reserve for the times when they feel despair. To call upon when they feel like life is kicking them around. It has to help.

Empty driveways, crowded driveways - you find meaning in different ways at different stages of life. What matters most is that your outlook feeds your happiness.

Time has a narrowing effect. The happiness you experience makes your heart strong and protects your soul. Especially as you age.

No small thing.

I DO Have Fun

 "Every time I see my buddies we get way too stoned

Aw, we start trading stories and it's on, it's on

I swear I've left a piece of me down every road I've gone

And I wouldn't have it any other way"

From Any Other Way, by Hayes & The Heathens

Please note: Seven decades in I only have one friend to get crazy with. We don't smoke together but we do enjoy a whiskey or two. Thank god for Phil.

Movin' to Glasgow

Watched a documentary on Billy Connolly the other night and decided I'm moving to Glasgow.

Billy was born and raised in Glasgow, a city founded in the 6th century - the sixth century. Glasgow and foreign (to us) cities like it are eons ahead of any location in the good ole USA in character, gravity, beauty, uniqueness, and fiercely loyal pride.

I was comfortable being in Billy Connolly's favorite pub - I need to drink some whiskey there, have a beer, meet the people. Shit I'd love to drink a beer with Billy in that pub, even though he gave up the sauce years ago - he could watch me enjoy it while making me laugh and drinking his tea.

Admittedly the good ole USA has only been around for 248 years, but we really haven't done a lot with the place. In fact we have trashed it.

My soul tells me that if I settled in Glasgow or Rome or London my soul would immediately be at peace, and after having some time to work my magic - I would have lots of friends in and out of pubs.

I feel soulless in this country because the country is soulless. Especially now when the only important thing in each citizen's life is figuring out how badly you can hurt and insult your neighbor. Or just fucking avoid them all together.

All great civilizations have endured atrocities - it is one of the charming things about human beings - we love to blow things out of proportion and then run around killing the enemy. But European nations seem to learn from the horror and go on to nurture a personality and strength of spirit that infuses their citizens with a profound sense of self and country.

Not here. We are on an eternal quest to fuck things up, turn things upside down and to hurt anyone who disagrees with our point of view.

Anyway...........................as soon as Carol kicks me out I'm moving to Glasgow.

If you don't know who Billy Connolly is, he is a comedian, actor, musician, and artist. He has been voted greatest stand-up comedian of all time by many UK polls. He is beloved. A man of the people.

When he started out he radically changed how comedy was perceived - he was improvisational and unique - he paved the way for many comedians who followed and is revered by them.

He is 82 now and is suffering with Parkinson's. He was 75 at the time this documentary was made and Parkinson's was already having it's way. I don't know what kind of shape he is in now, but it is a sad situation. 

Anyway, some rainy Saturday afternoon when you are sitting with a joint and a beer by your right hand, check out Billy Connolly - he will make you laugh, you will love him.

The documentary I watched is called Billy Connolly: Made in Scotland. It was a joy.  

As is Billy.

The Dead Don't Cry

 "A man's dying is more the survivor's affair than his own."

Thomas Mann

Consequences

 I have spent my entire life denying my own intelligence.

As a result, I have become stupid.

And That's Why......................

 "Conservatives govern without shame, and liberals shame without governing."

Bill Maher

Might Do Some Damage

I have to stop living in my head.

It's a royally fucked up place to be.

Every Goddamn Time

 Every time I'm forced to be practical and responsible I lose my sense of humor.

Where I Am

 "It's a big old beautiful universe and I'm happy where I am

I got supper in the oven and a cold drink in my hand

I take naps when I want to and go dancing when I can

And I wouldn't have it any other way"

From Any Other Way, by Hayes & The Heathens

Move On, Crazy Person

Comes a time when you have to stop apologizing.

Better to "Never apologize, never explain", but that ain't easy to do. You just have to not give a shit to pull that philosophy off. Most people can't do it. But it's gotta be tastier than premium dark chocolate, if you can live it.

Guilt's gotta go too. If you feel like you should apologize, you are feeling guilt. Fuck guilt.

After a while (many decades, typically) - you realize that you are what you are. You will fuck up (their definition, not yours) in consistent ways, and be judged for it in each instance. 

But how often do you fuck up? How many instances? Percentage-wise, it's minimal. If you fucked up all the time you'd be dead or in prison. Considering all the social interactions you experience in life, the vast majority of them are navigated with care and success. But the fuck-ups (their definition, not yours) seem overwhelming because you dwell on other people's reactions. You take it to heart.

Don't. It's not important. You deserve to be judged by a body of work, not by individual events.

After a certain point in your life you just gotta roll with it. You're gonna knock people off balance because of some miscalculation or excess and they will shake their heads and roll their eyes. But if you were pursuing something genuine to you and got the math wrong, well, shit happens. Next time you'll do better.

But realistically, doing better doesn't matter. It's not relevant if you let "better" be defined by others. Better is whatever you define it to be. Better only applies to your own expectations.

So move on, crazy person. Ignore the tension in the air and move on to the next scenario.

You'll have much more fun that way.

Beware of Sadness

Sadness happens.

Someone you love dies, you get sad. That's real. But you don't want to manufacture sadness. Your mind is a dangerous place - dark and deadly thoughts crawl around in there based on false assumptions and psychopathic aberrations.

You make yourself sad because you worry about something that isn't true.

Manufactured sadness drapes itself around you like a lead blanket, weighing you down, dulling your mind, anesthesizing your senses - because it is not real and your mind/body does not know how to handle it. How to respond to it.

Genuine sadness is recognizable; your body/mind knows the feeling, having been there so many times before. It is as natural as breathing. You absorb the sadness, you feel it, think about it, and wait for it to pass like the common cold.

Manufactured sadness is tenacious. It haunts every waking thought and renders you incapable of functioning. 

Then it tortures you in your dreams.

And so.......................

And so we bought a car.

Carol's dream car for a while has been a Chevy Trax. Green. Cacti Green. She has obsessed about it for a while. Drooled. Wished. Hoped.

We made it happen yesterday. A 2025 Chevrolet Trax ACTIV. Brand spanking new - 6 miles on the sucker.

Cacti Green.

Fucking beautiful. Nothing better than a brand new car. Trust me, we have not had many in our lifetime. It rejuvenates your outlook. Makes you smile. Jacks up your pride. It's just plain fun.

And it smells so damn good.

I have finally learned how to mine Carol's happiness to make it my own. When we drove out of that dealership I was bursting inside knowing how happy she was. I want Carol to be happy always.

I tamped down my natural tendencies so as to not ruin her day. Made a conscious effort to do so.

I hate buying cars. The bullshit games the dealer plays. The fucking time it takes. But I sucked it up, held it all in, and maintained a positive, supportive attitude throughout. Kept it light.

Even though it took about 3,000 hours to get it all done.

Carol apologized to me a couple of times for how long it was taking because she knows I have zero patience. I smiled and told her not to worry, I was ok with it. And really, I was.

But this ain't about me.

We just went out to do some errands, Carol driving the new car, and she was beaming. She must have said "I love this car" ten times while we were out.

So the pecking order has changed. I now park in the driveway, I gave Carol the garage and the remote garage door opener. My suggestion. She hesitated because she is so loving and considerate, but I talked her into it. She deserves it. She can look out from the kitchen any time she wants to and ogle her new toy.

This is life stuff, baby. The good stuff. The happy stuff that opens your eyes to how easy happy can be - when you're feeling it, looking for it, appreciating it - when you make it happen.

It caroms around to everything else. The flowers on the porch. The exceptional weather. The community we live in. The new friends we've made.

We have earned it. Took a long time to get here. We sacrificed a lot, sometimes unnecessarily just because saving money was just what we did. But we got a new attitude, baby. We are digging our new life as deeply as a life can be dug.

Laissez les bons temps rouler, baby.

MADNESS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 "Follow your inner moonlight; don't hide the madness."

Allen Ginsberg

Under 180

I weigh 178 pounds.

I haven't weighed under 180 since I was in diapers. This is fucking amazing!

A month prior to knee replacement I exercised like a pig-donkey to get in shape for surgery and lose some weight. I started at 192 pounds. By the time of surgery I lost two whole pounds - down to 190 pounds.

Since surgery I have lost 12 more pounds and I am lovin't it (Kramer impersonation). It has been a long, long time since I got under 180. I am psyched and extremely motivated now to get down to 170. That's where I want to be. Unless I can do better, of course.

I am getting into dangerous territory here. Gaining confidence. Kicking ass while recovering from knee replacement surgery. Losing 14 pounds. Getting a taste for what I am actually capable of. Perhaps I am a God.

Perfect timing. I got more details of my life to get straight. To get in order so Carol and I can live worry free. Things I have to do and want to do. For us. And to soothe my battered ego.

And the hits just keep on coming.

The past year has been extraordinary. All kinds of good things have been cloud seeding my natural pessimism (realism), modifying my outlook to enthusiastically face and embrace hope and optimism.

My face feels so weird. What the fuck - am I having some kind of seizure? My cheeks are getting tight involuntarily. I'm scared - I'm almost 71 years old - anything can happen. What is this?

Oh my god, it's a smile. 

Is this what it feels like?

Pretty cool, baby - pretty damn cool.

A Lot to Think About

 Everything that I am and everything I'm not.

From The Mouth of Jesus

Wrapped up Al Pacino's autobiography this morning.

The book was like the Bible in my hands. His words were as if they came from the mouth of Jesus.

Love the man.

The people who inspire me, I love deeply. I suppose everybody is like that. These people mean so much to me that they are deeply a part of my life. In my mind, my heart; they inform my soul.

It is not an abstract thing.

Most of my idols are creative people. Pacino is fiercely creative. So his perspective comes from that angle. He sees life differently, he talks about his life uniquely, his perspective is original. He as a man and everything about him springs from creativity and a worship of the arts.

People like that touch me deeply because I wish my life was the same. It could have been, should have been, but wasn't. 

I am familiar with most of his movies so I could picture in my head what he was talking about. But the inside stories make it all more real, more interesting. Like the fact that he almost got fired while filming The Godfather. Can you believe that?

Apparently he was not bringing the intensity to the role that they were looking for. They gave him a warning. The next scene they filmed was the restaurant scene when he kills Sollozzo and McCluskey. He was so focused and intense that any doubts about him vanished.

My life is better for knowing that.

A well written, honest autobiography reveals a lot about the author if they are brave enough to be truthful.

You get a sense of who they really are.

Pacino did it right. 

He was often self-deprecating, and also often proud of his work. He revealed some of his insecurities and some of his fears.

I got to know him as a human being, which fleshed out my reverence for him and makes it more meaningful.

He's 84, man. He talks about friends and relatives who have died, he reflects about what's coming for him. But of course he does it with soul and sensitivity.

When I turned the last page I was spent, because I did not want the book to end. I want to know him even better.

So Al, please pop over to my house. We'll drink wine, eat spaghetti, and talk like brothers.

It will be devastating.

From Pacino With Love

 "There was something so absorbing about that gift of reading. It could calm your mind and give you another world to be engaged in. Television was too distant; books were more intimate, like having friends and enjoying their company."

"But I ask myself sometimes, as I grow old, how many illusions do I have? Charlie and I used to say that when you're put in the grave, your illusions come out of whatever box you're in, they hover over your tombstone and evaporate into the sky. They're the last to go."

"There is a cold, clear determination about what Slade intends to do, the weight of that depression, the way I imagine you have to die spiritually, inside yourself, before you kill yourself."

" Objectively, I never knew what the fuck I was doing. It's that simple. I went from one thing to another. I'll never learn, and that's my problem. Or my gift. I don't learn things. I'm the first one to raise my hand high and say, "I don't know." Who wants to wallow in the pretense of knowing everything? What knowledge? What do I know, that I can sit with a pipe and expound on? I'm not Socrates." (This quote really resonates with me).

Charles Laughton was 84 and paraplegic from MS - he pointed to his heart and said to Pacino - "Al, you're right here. Don't worry about me. I got my dreams at night, I got my memories, and I got my imagination. I'll be okay." (I hope I have that kind of grace when I am 84).

"This life is a dream, as Shakespeare says. I think the saddest part about dying is that you lose your memories. Memories are like wings: they keep you flying, like a bird on the wind. If I'm lucky enough, if I get to heaven perhaps I'll get to reunite with my mother there. All I want is the chance to walk up to her, look in her eyes, and simply say, "Hey, Ma, see what happened to me?"

Delightful

 I'm having such a good morning.

My Life

 Just got back.

Ran out to the library, dropped off a book, picked up two more. I was greeted warmly.

Popped in to the liquor store, grabbed up a handle of Crown Royal - nectar of the Gods.

Slipped in to Market Basket, snagged two pouches of Starbucks dark roast for $7.99. TWO for $7.99. Saved enough money to buy a Lincoln and a Movado.

It is 59 degrees. Beautiful blue sky - not a cloud in site. Had the sunroof open and The Stones blasting on the radio.

My life is fucking spectacular!

Beware

 "Most people love you for who you pretend to be."

Jim Morrison

Put Yourself Out There

 "The most important kind of freedom is to be what you really are. You trade in your reality for a role. You give up your ability to feel, and in exchange, put on a mask."

Jim Morrison

Time Has Come Today

 Every thought I have, every action I take, every action I avoid, has to be examined for signs of cowardice from the perspective of identifying the motive in each instance.

This is critical.

When cowardice is exposed to the light of day, it must then be extinguished. With extreme prejudice.

Instance by instance.

Exhausting work, but more critical than ever in year 71.

Potential is refreshing and hopeful, but you gotta destroy roadblocks to enable the eagle to fly.

It is time.

Two By Jung

 "The privilege of a lifetime is to become who you truly are."

"The world will ask you who you are, and if you don't know, the world will tell you."

Carl Jung

Two Joes

Holy shit - I landed another job.

That makes three since I got here. Three in 2024.

People trust me. They trust both of me. The fact that I quit both of the other jobs after only a month each is irrelevant.

There's Interview Joe - the phony who knows exactly what to say at every interview, who knows how to exude confidence, project empathy and likability - who is smooth - a gifted performance artist.

There is Real Joe. I recently dusted him off. He hasn't seen the light of day for decades. For this most recent interview I decided that I was sick of playacting - I decided to just be myself..............and it worked! Who knew?

It wasn't easy - I slip into character at the drop of a hat - sometimes subconsciously. At Market Basket, in a bar, in public conversations, in private conversations - the smile flashes, the charm illuminates, the words flow like melted butter - and once again I am taking prisoners.

But I focused and pulled it off. Afterwards, in my car, I congratulated myself for being myself. It was a warm moment.

I watched Hard Knocks Off Season a few months ago. The Giants were evaluating potential draft candidates. If I was ever interviewed the way these guys were interviewed - ever in my life - I would have ended up a drunkard, living in a one room cold water flat in slumsville. And I would have no teeth.

The coach would draw up a play on the whiteboard. He would name it - 25ZLeftJuke14RandallPumpkinBreadEasy36 - and then ask the candidate "What do you do when the defense lines up like this? But what if they are faking it and shift into this coverage? What do you do? But what if this guy decides to blitz? Who do you go to?" After a few minutes of conversation the coach would say "Oh, by the way - what was the name of the play again?"

These guys nailed it. Fucking amazing.

So here we are. Got me another job. A librarian's assistant. Who could ever have guessed that? I have learned in the past year to go with the flow. Why not? A magical, positive karma has been protecting Carol and me over the last 12 months - I accept it and allow it to infuse my cells and my heart and my soul. Been waiting a lifetime for this feeling.

The job is so close to my home that I could literally walk there. AND the interviewer said to me "This library is pretty quiet - you might have to find ways to occupy yourself from time to time." I'm surrounded by books! Jesus loves me.

The customer service jobs I have worked for the past eight years have been stressful. Fast paced and busy. I'm ready for quiet. And a paycheck.

Two days a week, 8 hour days, and one 4 hour Saturday a month. Beautiful. That leaves me time to write The Great American novel. Or to drink whiskey and take naps.

I'm telling you, man - I had this vague roadmap of my life in the beginning. Actually, it was more of a feeling than a roadmap - but I knew how I wanted to end up.

I ain't there - not even close. But fuck it. What I have is not so bad. In fact it's pretty goddamn good.

Who knew?

Uh Oh..........

 Is there no growth?

Is there no catharsis?

No Wrong Turns

 There are no wrong turns, only unexpected destinations.

I like that. It allows me to explain away most of my life and sound adventurous.

I'm gonna go with it.

Can I?

 How far can I take this?

Can I become a man to be feared?

Kris Kristofferson

Kris Kristofferson was "an Oxford scholar, a defensive back, a bartender, a Golden Gloves Boxer, a gandy dancer, a forest-fighter, a road crew member, and an Army Ranger who flew helicopters. He was a peacenik, a revolutionary, an actor, a superstar, a Casanova, and a family man. He was almost a teacher at West Point, but he gave that up to become a Nashville songwriting bum."

I stole that description from his official website because I didn't want to miss anything.

This is a tough one for me. I am a word guy. In my mind the highest evolution of writing is when you can match your words to music. Kris did that in a way that was so accessible. He expressed high thoughts and deep truths effortlessly. Real people understand the depths of what he is saying because he speaks directly to their hearts.

I hate lists, I hate to rank things, especially regarding music, because I love music with my heart and soul, and my tastes range across a wide spectrum.

But Kris Kristofferson occupies rare air in my life. Bob Dylan, Townes Van Zandt, Leonard Cohen, Kris Kristofferson - that might be the four that I worship most. Kris is #1 - I loved that man so much.

Springsteen, Paul Simon, Willie Nelson - cream of the crop, man. Right up there. But Dylan, Cohen, Van Zandt, and Kristofferson have a way of expressing deep philosophies, of expressing raw truths about the heart and life and what it means to be human; they make you think and appreciate and feel and investigate and smile and cry. They talk about small things in life that connect us all as humans; they express big thoughts that make you want to improve your life and your mind.

Staggering talents.

I am struggling here because I do not want to say anything inconsequential. I cannot tell you how many times I listened to Kris's lyrics in awe - amazed at how he expressed himself and how it related to my own life and mind.

I am always looking for stimulation. I am often bored. I live for the moments when I can lose myself in pure emotion, pure thought; for the moments when my mind recoils in horror at being exposed to what it doesn't know, forced to put in the work to learn more. Or the moments when anxiety, worry, self-doubt and fear are quieted in my mind by music, poetry, philosophy.

Kris Kristofferson gave me all of that all the time. I was humbled to listen to him.

Carol and I saw him in concert at the Hampton Beach Casino. The band took a break - Kris walked out the big doors leading to the parking lot, I went to the men's room. Walking back, as I passed the doors, one swung open and in walked Kris - he passed within five feet of me. I said nothing - I was in awe. I should have shaken his hand, told him how much he meant to me. Still, I was purified by his aura.

We saw him in Keene - alone, on stage. Just Kris Kristofferson and his guitar - no band. It was so intimate it was mind blowing.

Bob Dylan - "Everything was very copacetic. Everything was all right until - Kris Kristofferson came to town. Oh, they ain't seen anybody like him. He came into town like a wildcat, flew his helicopter into Johnny Cash's backyard like a typical songwriter. And he went for the throat............................you can look at Nashville pre-Kris and post-Kris - because he changed everything." (Dylan - 2015).

I cannot choose my favorite Kris lyrics - but these always blow me away because it feels like they summarize an entire life, and the universal struggles and questions connected with just being human:

"Am I young enough to believe in revolution, am I strong enough to get down on my knees and pray, am I high enough on the chain of evolution to respect myself, and my brother and my sister, and perfect myself in my own peculiar way." From Pilgrim's Progress.

I loved you with my heart and soul, Kris Kristofferson. I always will. Your talent brought me such peace and joy, you added years to my life. You lived your life in fierce expression of your soul, no matter what.

It will take me a very long time to get over your death.

Requiescat in pace, Kris Kristofferson.

You have left a void in this world that will never be filled.

Dominoes

My generation is poised to endure a world of hurt.

Kris Kristofferson just died at the age of 88.

Wille Nelson is 91. Ringo Starr is 84. Paul McCartney is 82. Keith Richards is 80. Mick Jagger is 81. Bob Dylan is 83.

Those are the people who inspired my generation to be rebels. They are gods.

Elton John is 77. Billy Joel is 75. Bruce Springsteen is 75. Roger Daltry is 80. Pete Townshend is 79. Robby Krieger is 78. John Densmore is 79. Eric Clapton is 79. Paul Simon is 82. Robert Plant is 76. Jimmy Page is 80. Van Morrison is 79. Eric Burdon is 83.

I fear that when they fall, they will fall like dominoes. I have been thinking about this for a few years now. I pray that Kris Kristofferson does not start a trend.

It is painful to think about because of what they all represented - youth. Rebellion. Fierce iconoclasm.

But life, relentless as it is, is wearing them down, grinding them down, stealing their fire. Eventually, snuffing their lives. A lesson for everybody, but especially for my generation.

These people brought a new perspective to us and challenged us to live our lives boldly, in accordance with our souls, and against the ridiculous and suffocating rules that "normal" life imposes. In a way, they gave us false hope. Then again, they were inspiring - those of us who did not follow their religion can only blame themselves. And, most of them are still rocking, even now.

On one hand I appreciate everything they gave to us. Love it, actually. On the other hand, as they go, I know I - and most of my generation - will be devastated.

My generation is making room for the generations that followed us.

It is inevitable.

One of Life's Deepest Truths

 "He who binds to himself a joy

  Does the winged life destroy

  He who kisses the joy as it flies

  Lives in eternity's sunrise"

Eternity, by William Blake

Who Is In Control?

 "If I am this solitary life within my skin why can't I control the confusion of my thoughts? No one else can do it for me."

From The English Major, by Jim Harrison

Debased and Disgraced

Every second of every minute of every day you must project confidence. 

If you do not, the world will eat you up. But before it does it will use and abuse you until, ultimately, a haunted face stares back from the mirror; dark, expressionless eyes reflecting defeat in its most debasing form - absolute loss of self.

Opting For Ignorance

 "With death we will become unknown to ourselves."

I read that somewhere. Just another layer to the reality of dying. One I do not wish to explore for many years to come.

?

 "I am at heart a scared and simple man."

From The English Major, by Jim Harrison

I wonder how many men would have the guts to admit that to a friend or family member.

What You Get

 "....it filled Payne with the joy of knowing that expressways are inhabited by artful dodgers, high handed intuitive anarchists who don't get counted but believe in their vast collective heart that the U.S.A. is a floating crap game of strangling spiritual credit."

From The Bushwhacked Piano, by Thomas McGuane

This is what you get when you read fiercely original authors. McGuane is just such an author. He is 84 years old. I discovered him last year while reading a biography of Jimmy Buffett (with deep sadness) shortly after he died. Buffett was pals with McGuane and respected his writing. I figure if Buffett liked him he is worth checking out. I've been reading him ever since.

I find a lot of authors that way. It's a cool way to explore new territory because you do not know what you are going to find. But I digress.

Did you read that sentence I quoted from The Bushwhacked Piano? What did you think?

Fucking crazy, right? You need crazy. I need crazy. Life is boring, crazy is good. Bizarre is even better.

The thing is, depending on your temperament, you either think it's fucking rubbish, you find it amusing, or you think there's really something there.

I have been reading a lot of comfort food authors lately - they soothe my brain. C.J. Box, John Sandford, Vince Flynn, James Lee Burke, Dennis Lehane - I gobble them up, they entertain me, they take me away, as Calgon bath products used to do.

But my brain requires bizarre from time to time. I gotta have it. At the very least, challenging. Piano is an acid trip from page one. You open up the book, get a good grip on the cover, and jump in with both feet until you get bucked off (if you are faint of heart). Me, I hold on.

Ever read William S. Burroughs? Holy shit - if he doesn't melt your brain, causing it to run out of your ears like rainwater through a gutter spout - then you are a tougher man than I.

It's easy to read comfort food books and that is good. They get your mind off your mind. But they don't feed your mind. An unfed mind is a dead mind.

PB&J is wonderful food, you can eat it every day in endless variations - assuming your food budget and refrigerator can accomodate 15 varieties of jelly. But after 105 consecutive days of that, you covet steak - Delmonico to be exact. You lust for it. And when you eat that steak it changes you. Suddenly you can't live without the finer things.

But, of course, you can't really afford the finer things. For Christ sake, that's why you were eating PB&J in the first place. So you settle for semi-finer things from time to time, and enjoy your comfort food just as much.

Reading challenging books is like that. You stretch your brain to the limit, as lightning and thunder rearrange your brain cells, but only temporarily.

Then you fall back on John Sandford. And love it.

But never Stephen King. I got sick of him a long time ago.

Didn't you?

One Last Shot

 The late September sun slants in through the picture window, engaging in battle with doubtful thoughts and dark imaginings.

It's a fair fight.

He shifts awkwardly in the recliner, the house unnaturally quiet, and in the space of two or three minutes moves through a range of emotions varying from baseless fear to uncharacteristic joy.

Just another uninspired Friday morning. Around 9:00 o'clock.

They pile up, these Fridays do, along with the other days of the week. Creating an intimidating  mountain of days spent, leaving a diminishing store of days to come.

He sees his future but does not act like it's real. With quiet desperation (he wouldn't want to upset anyone) he senses the acceleration of time and the slow death of options.

But the late September sun slants through the picture window with just enough spark to keep hope alive.

The days will continue to roll on relentlessly. Options will present themselves whether he recognizes them or not.

He is hoping for one last shot at redemption. He will try.

But it's warm here in the recliner, comfortable with two blankets and his cat.

He could close his eyes and drift away. Gently. No disturbance.

Which will it be?

Serenity

 "He began thinking in terms of big time life changes, of art and motorcycles, mountains, dreams and rivers."

From The Bushwhacked Piano, by Thomas McGuane.

A Good Plan

 "He suddenly saw how he would not live forever; and he wished to adjust his life before he died."

From The Bushwhacked Piano, by Thomas McGuane

Then Again.......

 My blessings outweigh my regrets.

He Tried

 When I watch Uncut Gems I get so depressed.

Because Howard Ratner is me.

Actually, it's worse than that. Ratner is better than me.

At least he fucking TRIED.

I Wholeheartedly Agree

 " I normally can't stand vice-free people. They conflate a narcissistic instinct for self-preservation with moral superiority. Plus, they suck the life right out of a party."

From Moonlight Mile, by Dennis Lehane

Sanctified

Since 7/31 my entire life has revolved around exercising and icing the knee. Three fucking times a day. No breaks. 7 days a week.

I can't eat normally because I have to exercise so often that having a pound of mac n cheese in my belly is counter-intuitive. When I want a breakfast sandwich I eat a slice of toast. When I want a cheeseburger for lunch I eat two helpings of string cheese.

I'm tired all the time so I often fall asleep in between torture sessions. My time is not my own.

Had physical therapy this past Thursday at 12:00. Typically my sessions are at 3:00. I much prefer 3:00. That way I can exercise at home twice before the PT session, then after the session I feel completely justified treating myself to a beer and a burrito when I get home. It is fucking exhilirating.

But 12:00? I seized on the opportunity to take a little vacation. I exercised in the morning then dutifully attended PT. Then I rushed home and took the rest of the day off. Made myself a magnificent ham and cheese sandwich, grabbed some chips and a beer, and sat down to watch the 2 and 1/2 hour documentary Stevie Van Zandt: Disciple.

And did not exercise for the rest of the day. It was fucking magnificent.

I chilled, I thrilled, I got wild and smiled - and felt zero guilt. Not one bit. Not one second.

That, my friend, is plugging into The Now. In A Big Way.

My soul is still lit up. No need for lights at night - I just follow the trail illuminated by my sanctified soul.

Gonna get me more of that good stuff.

Fear

 "I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear."

Frank Herbert

Is This What America Has Come To?

Apparently the next President of these United States will be the one who does not get assassinated.

What the fuck has happened to the land of the free and the home of the brave?

Freedom is being severely curtailed, and I'm seeing a lot more cowardice than bravery.

What is the fucking point?

What is the fucking future?

The Only Sane Thing

It is imperative that I learn to live in the now - NOW!

Nothing but turbulence since 10/31/2023. Ch ch ch changes. The best of which was some fellow named Jackson Joseph Testa. Which actually highlights the point of this rant.

Jackson is coming up on 6 months old. I will have to live to be 90 to see him at 20. Frightening thought. So I have to learn to live in the now. Every moment with him is precious and we definitely treat them that way. We are mesmerized. That is what matters. And when 2044 rolls around we'll see where I am at. If I don't make it, I will not have wasted one precious Jackson moment. That is critical.

But there's more.

My life has been so weird since last October. All over the map, most of it good. But the Knee Situation has tested me AND given me lots of time to think. In a weird way it has been the icing on the cake as far as introspection goes. I have been imprisoned in my home, free to consider my short-comings and obligations. And to gain some perspective.

I got a lot hanging over my head. 

We gotta deal with/worry about the money-grubbing asshole that owns this park. I need a job. I'm swimming upstream towards my true self - 7 decades of self-loathing behavior is tough to turn around. But when it happens - and it is happening - it will happen. Just like that. Carol needs a new car. I want my Lincoln and my Movado.

But, you know, man - we got it pretty good right now. The rest will come. Because I will take care of it.

So why not be happy while happiness is happening so naturally. Just dig it, baby.

I am loosening up. I'm getting better at it. Happiness no longer feels foreign to me. But I got to get to 100%. I cannot waste one second of the happiness I am living. I cannot obsess about the future - it will work out. 

Football season has started. Hockey season is right around the corner. We have new friends. and just reconnected with old friends just last week - who live in Belmont! I got Carol & Emmy Lou & Patsy, Keith & Krista & Jack, Craig & Amanda & Jackson & Murray, Eddie & Carolina, a little $ in the bank. I am fucking happy.

NOW NOW NOW

Gonna gobble it up like there's no tomorrow.

It's the only sane thing to do.

Braggadocio

 It's a lot easier to pretend to be tough on a Sunday than it is on a Monday.

Stained Pages

I have withdrawn 35 books from the town library since I moved to this very cool town.

75% have had stained pages. WTF? Green stains, orange stains, red stains, brown stains, yellow stains - are you fucking kidding me? I refuse to speculate on the origins of those stains - if I do I will end up decontaminating every book in a special purification unit costing me $2,500.

Do people disrespect free books? If so, they should be jailed. Cracks me up - everybody pisses and moans about the cost of things, but when you give them free stuff they piss on it.

My books are pristine. And I treat library books the same way - like precious gems. 

When I devour a greasy plate of baby back ribs, I don't immediately pick up a copy of War & Peace. I wash my fucking hands first.

I'm digging the library thing, man - do you have any idea how much money I've saved by not buying 35 books? Plus I enjoy going in and browsing - it's not Old Number Six Book Depot, but the tiny Belmont library still brings me peace.

But not the page stainers. They bring me no peace.

When I am elected King of the World these people will be herded up and forced to clean public toilets for the rest of their lives.

Goals, Baby - Goals

 So the plan is to kick so much ass between now and December 31, 2024, that there will be bleeding arses from here to hell and back.

Can You Believe It?

 They are telling me to love my mind.

I'm warming up to the idea.

.......or sooner

 My ultimate goal in the next ten years is to get to a place where I no longer have anything to prove.

Two Documentaries (Two Amazing Men)

Roger Federer. David Bowie.

Inside stuff, personal, intimate, emotional. Amazing documentaries.

Federer: Twelve Final Days - Documents the final twelve days before Federer went public with his retirement. It was not originally intended for public consumption - it was supposed to be a personal remembrance.

It focuses on his wife and kids, his friends, his parents - how Federer's retirement is affecting them. It zeroes on in Federer's emotions, his introspection. And it reveals the love and respect of his peers.

Tears were shed at an astonishing rate.

These are the people who were on hand to honor Federer - Rod Laver, Bjorn Borg, Andy Murray, John McEnroe, Novak Djokovic, Rafael Nadal - tennis royalty.

The last match he played was a doubles match with Nadal as his partner. Nadal was his nemesis during Federer's career but the love and respect for each other was obvious. When it was over Federer hugged McEnroe, Rod Laver, Borg, Novak Djokovic,  and others - crying through it all. At one point Nadal and Federer were sitting side by side on the court - openly weeping. Even the audience was somber.

Tears tell the truth - when it comes down to love and respect, they make a life.

David Bowie - The Last Five Years - Documents the last five years of Bowie's life. Five years in which he recorded two albums - The Next Day, and Blackstar, and oversaw the production of his broadway musical - Lazarus.

Again, a deeply personal documentary. Especially as seen through the eyes of the musicians and theatre people who worked with him, who obviously revered the man.

He was dying of cancer but kept a tight lid on that. Most of the people he was working with did not know until he could no longer hide the truth. On January 10, 2016, I was pulling into the parking lot of the liquor store where I worked when Bowie's death was announced on the radio. I was devastated.

The two albums are deeply introspective. He really digs into his past, but also offers commentary on life today. The accompanying videos are mind blowing - a man obviously dealing with his unavoidable death.

Bowie is revealed in his wholeness - not just as that guy who dressed up as....................... His approach to his career was explained, what his success meant to him, and how he used his fame to say what he really wanted to say.

Love and respect. Everyone around him had that in abundance.

Two wildly different men who accomplished the same things. They achieved success at an extraordinary level, and managed to inspire deep love and respect from the people who knew them best.

People like that make other peoples' lives better.

There is no more meaningful gift to give.

Bukowski

"The days run away like wild horses over the hills."

Charles Bukowski

I am 70 years, 7 months, and 9 days old.

The last year in my life has been magical. I can't get complacent.

I'm digging the happy, but I got more to do. I have to secure our financial security. We live in a home that we love, and in a community that we love, but there are wolves who cannot wait to rip our flesh and suck the marrow from our bones.

A flame has been lit in my soul - I need to blow that thing up to bonfire status.

I am building strength and layering strength upon strength.

In a very few months I will be 71.

The days are indeed running away like wild horses over the hills.

I'm not stopping until I get what I want. I'm not stopping until Carol gets what she deserves.

I owe her.

If Only

 If I were writing ad copy for George Dickel Tennessee Whiskey I would be tempted to be heroically creative.

No one would question my judgement because, obviously, I would be highly paid.

" Be a rugged individualist! Buy George Dickel Tennessee Whiskey. 

Become a Dickelhead!"

First Impressions Redux

I don't give a damn about any first impression I have ever made in my life up to now. 

Every first impression I have made was erroneous. Not one of those people really know who I am.

I am all about making new first impressions. With everyone I know and love.

Starting over. Just like that. It can be done. Change your mind change your life.

I have done nothing but think since July 31. Suffering and time will do that. 

And thinking has been kicked into overdrive with Carol on vacation.

Everything I do while home alone is something that nourishes my soul. No distractions, no compromises, no obligations other than to myself. Books, movies, sports, MUSIC - my soul is wide open and drinking in everything I love like a parched derelict stumbling over a wide open fire hose.

I am beating myself up with these fucking knee exercises and kicking ass. More often than not I look forward to them because they are an enormous challenge and I like defeating them. Every time I do I get stronger mentally. I can feel it happening.

Take that dynamic and add to it a soul that is being fed exactly what it wants - exactly what it fucking needs - non-stop every waking hour - and I feel like Superman.

First impressions, baby.

Blow you out of the water.

And The Joey goes To.....................

I created a new award - The Joey.

It goes to the best sports talk show on television. And the winner is................

Get Up. Mike Greenberg. Great show, no bullshit, no overblown personalities. Just good conversations and interesting debates. It's a show honestly dedicated to sports - not focused on hyping individual exaggerated personalities.

The Losers:

Zolak & Bertrand.  Sarcasm. That is the perfect word to describe the show. Everything about the show. The atmosphere, the attitude, the opinions, the conversations. They act like they are above everyone else and only their opinions matter. Nobody needs that.

First Take. Stephen A. Smith. That's all you gotta know. I watched him on Club Random - Bill Maher's "podcast" - and I actually liked him. But on First Take he is a combatant - take no prisoners. And that forces Shannon Sharpe to play defense, and to feel like he has to puff up his ego. Nobody needs that.

Felger & Mazz - Felger is a know-it-all with attitude. Feels like he goes out of his way to criticize Boston sports teams as if that makes him tough. And Mazz - such an annoying voice. There's a reason he only lasted one season in the Red Sox broadcast booth. Nobody needs that.

Around the Horn - Again, sarcasm and a sense of superiority. Plus Tony Reali's scoring system is so subjective that it is meaningless. Nobody needs that.

Good Morning Football - I actually like this show. They have a unique perspective and I like the personalities, although it has changed a lot in the past couple of years. A bit of tension between Peter Schrager and Kyle Brandt - keeps it interesting. They did not win The Joey because they do a lot of cutesy things on the show. Nobody needs that.

Honorable Mention:

PTI - I still love this show. Tony Kornheiser and Michael Wilbon. Kornheiser is 76 - 76 years old, for Christ sake - and Wilbon is 65. Not exactly the profile for today's sports talk shows. But they have a sense of humor. And good chemistry. And a unique format. Everybody needs that.

Sad But True

 "It's strange how often human beings die without any kind of style."

Guy Sajer, The Forgotten Soldier

The Knee Replacement Victim's Mantra

 Pain is weakness leaving the body.

Circumstances Change

Carol just left for vacation.

10 minutes ago.

Last few years she pops up to Salisbury Beach with Paula, Cori, Lorraine, and used to be Ronda. Ronda dropped out last year. For 3 nights 4 days.

Used to be I couldn't wait for her to leave. Used to be she couldn't wait to leave. This year is different.

It is comforting to have Carol around as I endure rehabbing the knee. To talk to, to take care of me, to take comfort in just having her around for support. To worry about me and encourage me.

I got emotional today. So did she.

I got me the Us Open to dig, I got me a Delmonico steak for a special supper, no MSNBC or local WMUR news for 3 and 1/2 days, NFL kicking off, music to listen to loud and whenever I want to.

Same as always.

But this year it is different. I am feeling alone. Already.

I am a different and a better man than before this knee thing happened. I am working hard and proud of my progress. And I am not whining nearly as much as Old Me would have done. This is tough, sometimes painful, and time consuming. And it is transforming me.

But I do have days when I am just too tired, feeling more pain than I'd like to be, when getting up to exercise one more time seems like getting up to climb Mount Everest. And on those days I do blow off steam. And Carol talks me down and encourages me and empathises with me or for me.

I am getting tougher.

But I am not whole without Carol.

Deadly Fucking Serious

 I am on a deadly serious quest.

To prove that my life has value.

Before has becomes had.

It's Labor Day Weekend Already?

I have been listening to people say that for 68 years.

When I was 1 year old I was exceptionally happy. The world was entralling and people were entertaining. I was not yet fully formed. By the age of two I was more discriminating. I was clever. I realized the world was corrupt and deceitful. I realized that people were boring more than entertaining and that they leaned on cliches more than intelligence. Happy to say the same things in the same situations every single fucking time.

Like "I can't believe it's Labor Day weekend already!"

Summer goes by in the blink of an eye every year. Because you are happy in summertime and sad to see it end. You know it. You see it coming. So knock it off with this phony "It's Labor Day weekend already?"

But...............................I have to say it myself this year. I can't believe this is Labor Day weekend.

August was stolen from me. An underhanded thief ripped my natural knee out of me and took August with it. And now that I am a knee replacement pro, I realize I'm probably going to lose a healthy chunk of September too.

It's an odd feeling. Spending every day inflicting pain and discomfort on myself while the world rockets by without even bothering to look in my window.

What I am doing is good. It's right. I am proud of my progress - I am attacking this challenge like a pig-donkey.

But summer is summer. When you lose it, you lose free and easy.

I intend to make up for it in the fall. Live music, beautiful burgers, cold beer, Crown Royal, getting out, getting about, laughing with family, laughing with friends, grabbing up handfuls of fun for Carol and me.

It's ok.

I'll be all right.

Far Away Eyes

Finished up a movie a couple of nights ago, it was around 1:00 am, I was awake enough and there was whiskey left in the glass, so I went to youtube and binged on The Stones.

In particular - Far Away Eyes - I listened to it 3 times. Love the song.

When I tended bar at the Legion I was friendly with a guy who was born in Scotland and made his living in this country as a stone mason. He was one rough dude. Physically tough, intimidating in nature, projected a "you don't fuck with me" kind of aura (which nobody did), but a good guy. With a super cool accent.

We hit it off. Especially with a few whiskies under our belts. More especially when someone played Far Away Eyes on the jukebox. Sometimes we took matters into our own hands and played it ourselves.

We both loved the song.

There is kind of a narrative feel to the lyrics - you gotta check it out - where Mick talk/sings with a faux southern accent. Up to the chorus, which is sung.

I am sad to say I can't remember my friends name. Anyway, we would stumble through the narrative part, which we didn't always get right, but we nailed the chorus. Every time.

Then it was glasses raised, glasses clinked, whiskey down the throat.

Music and alcohol are a magical combination. A failed accountant and a Scottish stone mason sharing whiskey and singing together in public? How does that happen?

It happens because music + alcohol cuts right through the bullshit and allows for the free and open expression of fun and abandonment.

It is the purest form of living in the moment. It is living, period.

I miss it.

A Wild Ride

 Alcaraz is gone.

Djokovic is gone.

Next week is going to be fascinating.

Strap in, people - we're in for a wild ride.

Our Greatest Fear With AI

 "I'm sorry Dave, I'm afraid I can't do that."

This Is Love

 Had physical therapy this afternoon.

Felt good afterwards (they have the greatest ice machine in therapy) so I went to Market Basket with Carol. She's still driving me - I haven't gotten there yet.

First time doing a normal human thing. I went inside with her and picked out the beer I wanted, then went back out to the car while Carol shopped. I'm not up to racing around MB quite yet. Besides, it's a gorgeous day today.

Sitting there people watching.

An elderly couple (80's ?) came out and went to their car. The husband backed the car half way out of the space as his wife stood by the passenger side. He got out, walked around to her side, and reached inside to grab a small plastic stool. He helped her get into the car, placing the stool so she could use it to step up. He anchored the stool with his foot.

He wrapped the seat belt around her, gently closed the car door, and placed the stool in the back. Walked back around to the driver's side and they drove away.

I was deeply moved.

Confucius Say

 Sleep like shit, feel like shit.

Ever The Optimist

 The upside to not being able to eat much is that I have lost 8 pounds since knee surgery.

I lost 2 pounds before I went under the knife.

10 pounds down in 2 months.

I broke out the Speedo. Stars and Stripes. Red, White, and Blue.

I'm gonna be a big hit here in our elderly community.

Have a Drink, Lad

 It's always comforting to be back in the company of vicious criminals.

In The Beginning

Read a post on a knee replacement facebook page that really hit home.

The woman was saying that she wants her life back, that rehabbing the knee is her whole life, that summer is being stolen from her.

That's how I feel.

In the beginning I felt good banging away, trying to make progress. Proud of what I was accomplishing. Four weeks in, every fucking day is the same. I exercise three times a day, which takes 3 hours out of my day - half an hour to exercise, 20 minutes to ice, 10 minutes to calm down.

Exercising takes A LOT out of me.

I fall asleep during the day. Because I am getting 3 hours of "sleep" at night, and 2 hours of dozing. Every fucking night.

I have only left the house 3 times since July 31. For fucking physical therapy.

I have to eat lightly during the day because I can't exercise with food in my belly, and each exercise session comes around quickly.

Rehabbing this knee is dominating my life. There is nothing else. It affects everything.

Yesterday my therapist almost killed me. Put me on the exercise bike at a different setting than it was on the last time. I tried to do a full rotation immediately and came very close to screaming in pain. I did yell a bit, not loudly, but enough to be heard. It really hurt. I was stuck in mid pedal and had to get her to help me out of it.

It fucking sucked.

I actually like this therapist, but she tried to expalin away the pain by saying "Remember, when you feel pain, it does not mean you are hurting the new knee - you can't hurt it." That did not make me feel any better. I wasn't thinking about the new knee - I was focused on the fucking pain. Period.

I exercised twice yesterday instead of three times. I exercised twice today instead of three times. This is the first time I have done this. I just couldn't handle it.

I'm feeling really down today.

And to you  who ask "Then why did you do this?" I exhausted every option. Knee replacement ultimately was the only thing I had left. The problem is, no matter how much you read up about it in advance, you cannot prepare for the reality of rehab. Hardest thing I have ever done in my life.

And that's saying a lot. I was a fucking accountant for over 20 years, for Christ sake.

Rehabbing this knee is my whole life, and it will be for many more weeks.

I want my life back.

Yeah

 I have to trim my eyebrows today.

That's good.

It will take my mind off of things.

Is It Too Late?

 I don't fucking think so.

Collecting Things I Don't Want

A walker, a cane, a shower seat, a raised toilet seat.

I don't want these things in my house, but I got 'em all. I fought the toilet riser the hardest - just bought it a couple of days ago. 

It fucking hurts to sit - I don't know why I waited so long. The only chair I can sit in is the recliner. If I sit on a kitchen chair or my office chair - PAIN! And this is almost 4 weeks since surgery. So the toilet hurts.

These things are temporary and I will get them out of my life asap. Fucking throw them out the front door and light them on fire.

But they are a warning. An ominous sign of things to come.

80 scares me. It seems to be the age when people just fall apart. I'm hoping to do better than that. 85 would be good, 90 would be better. But you never fucking know.

Walkers, canes, shower seats, toilet risers - they suck. They reek of death. They might as well be embossed with a profile of the Grim Reaper. They scream out "You are going to die soon. And before then you will be humiliated, weakened, embarrassed, and mocked."

It is strange that a knee replacement, which was done to make my life better, is accompanied by all of these Grim Reaper aids.

I don't fucking like it. And I don't want to deal with them for another fifteen years.

I gotta go. I gotta take a look at the toilet riser - I've had it for two days and haven't installed it yet. But it is definitely go time.

I just had another painful bathroom visit.

Frail and Vulnerable

 Joe was exhausted.

He leaned his head back in the recliner, slid his finger inside the book to keep his place, laid the book across his left thigh, and closed his eyes. His beloved cat Patsy was draped over his right thigh.

It was 8:52 on a Sunday morning.

He had not slept well since the surgery. Four straight weeks of late night torture. He typically went to bed at midnight, 1:00, 1:30.......and invariably woke up for the first time always around 3:00. Every fucking time. Always around 3:00.

Then he would doze off and on for 2 or 3 hours and wake up for good around 5 or 6.

When he read in the morning he had to take breaks. He was too tired to concentrate. Sometimes he fell back asleep.

Like today.

Joe's chronic fatigue led to slip ups and oversights. He forgot to lock the front door last night.

So his friend was able to slip into the house silently. He walked to the recliner and looked down on Joe with disgust.

Sleeping. Book on one thigh, cat on the other. So frail, so fucking vulnerable.

He quickly drew the knife across Joe's throat and left the house quickly.

Patsy had leaped to the floor and began to clean herself frantically.

If Joe could have seen Patsy smeared with his blood he would have broken down sobbing. She was his precious cat.

As it was, Joe saw nothing.

And he never would again.

No. Seriously.

 I am working on becoming formidable.

The Great Enemy is Time

 "The great enemy is time. It wears away stone and collapses arctic ice; it sinks ancient cities beneath the ocean and isolates giant arks on mountaintops and, if we let it, robs the light from our eyes. But the heart is its own measure; if it wishes, it can live forever when you accept the heart as a music box, a magical gift, one that's always there, like a rustling of the spheres or the leaves bouncing along the pavement deep down in the fall. A rainbow is up there. Don't let anybody tell you there's not."

From Clete, by James Lee Burke

This Is What They Did To Me (In case you're interested)

Knee replacement in a nutshell:

Prepare the bone: The damaged cartilage surfaces at the ends of the femur and tibia are removed along with a small amount of underlying bone.

Position the metal implants: The removed cartilage and bone is replaced with metal components that recreate the surface of the joint. These metal parts may be cemented or "press-fit" into the bone.

Resurface the patella: The undersurface of the patella (kneecap) is cut and resurfaced with a plastic button.

Insert a spacer: A medical-grade plastic spacer is inserted between the metal components to create a smooth gliding surface.

A wild ride, my friends - a wild ride.

USC Trojan Marching Band

False alarm - I cannot walk without a cane.

I tried it but ending up slamming my good leg into the ground, creating an imbalance. The new outpatient PT said "Uh, uh - no go Joe - use the damn cane!" She was right.

Trouble is the new knee is still super stiff so I am resistant to bending it. Does me no good to walk stiff legged with the cane. PT person said that would retard my recovery/progress. So at her suggestion I walk with an exagerrated motion lifting the knee high as I walk.

Like the USC Trojan Marching Band. They look good. I do not.

I look ridiculous..................but it works. The motion keeps the knee moving, beating flexibility into it's muscle memory.

I live in a 55+ community. We are all tightly situated. And the elderly have little to occupy their lives. Live entertainment is expensive and most shows start at 8 o'clock, not end at 8 o'clock.

Word has gotten 'round how comical I look marching around my house. The neighbors are excited. Every afternoon they gather on the small deck right outside our sliders, with popcorn and soda, booze and pot, to cheer me on.

I don't mind. They are nice people. And I am a natural born ham.

I wear a special outfit - red satin shorts with stars and stripes suspenders. Cut off t-shirt to highlight my massive guns. With George Carlin's face on it.

I put on a show. Sometimes I strut like a stripper and get many admiring glances, especially from the over 70 floozies. Sometimes I pretend to stumble before miraculously saving myself (this always results in audible gasps). They clap, they cheer - "Go Joe Go!"

I put a tip jar on the deck - I'm not working, you know. Unfortunately the tips I get tend to be snickadoodle cookies, discarded gum, and empty beer cans.

Although I did get a note one day.

"Joe - you're a hottie! How about a kiss? Meet me tomorrow under the banyon tree at the intersection of Lilac Lane and Great Brook Road."

Hoochie mama!

I did not go.

Aggressive women make me nervous.

PLEASE

 Can I PLEASE get some fucking sleep?

Yesterday

 Yesterday was a good day.

Nothing to apologize for.

No Doubt

 Right now - I am tougher than John Wick.

I Can Do It Again

 As of today I have been home for 18 days after getting me a new knee.

Two days ago I started walking around the house without a walker or a cane. That is World Record shit, baby.

The average estimate for unassisted walking after knee replacement is 6 weeks. More agressive estimates fall between 3 to 4 weeks.

I got them both beat - by a lot.

I'm not bragging. Yes I am. But I am also here to tell you I learned something about myself.

One month before sugery I upped the intensity of my preparations. Exercising like a pig-donkey. Remember?

Since I got home I have been working myself hard. Through pain, fatigue, and an occasional "I don't want to fucking do this" moment.

I made myself do it.

And I am way ahead of the curve.

I am a lazy man. I don't commit to anything. I talk a big game but rarely back it up. Those are just the facts.

This time is different. I made a commitment to myself and I backed it up with action. "Watch what they do, not what they say." I have been cleared for outpatient therapy. The therapist told me she knew I would be ready quickly because the muscle tone in my legs was good upfront. And she could see upfront that "I am committed and not afraid of pain."

When she left yesterday I felt good about myself. Real good. Proud of what I can do. And pride executed self-doubt, worry, baseless anxiety. I felt strong and calm and at peace with myself.

I have been rambling on about using this knee thing as a springboard for changing my life, changing who I am. This is a great fucking start. Stage One was a smahing success. Stage Two starts Monday.

I made a promise to myself and I delivered.

I can do it again.

More Work To Do

It recently occurred to me that when I say something like: "That stupid, jerk-off, motherfucking, asshole disrespected me" - I don't sound tough. I don't intimidate. I don't sound smart.

I sound juvenile. And stupid.

I'll have to work on that.

Finally

 As Joe flew down Interstate 25 in Wyoming at 80 mph, headed towards Wheatland (population 3,509), he raised the bottle of Jack to his lips and took an appreciative swallow. Capped the bottle and set it down on the passenger seat beside him and cranked the radio up a couple more notches. The Allman Brothers Band. Capturing the very spirit in song Joe had waited his whole life to live.

He lived in New Hampshire for most of his adult life. Such a vapid, disingenuous place. Everybody walking around with "Live Free or Die" on their lips, their t-shirts. and their tattoos as they gossiped in the latest trendy wine bar. Even the fools who went out of their way to flaunt the freedom of living in a permitless carry state, with their guns exposed for all to see, were frauds. They had no feel for what it really means to own a gun, no sense of awe or history. Just a bunch of pantywaists trying to look tough.

New Hampshire talked tough, but the truth was not intimidating.

Joe moved to Wyoming at the age of 70. Jesus, talk about wasted time. Because as soon as he set foot in Wyoming, he knew he was home. He fit. And Wheatland was perfect. A picture book small western town with exactly the right attitude to heal Joe's battered soul.

It did not take him long to make the Commodore Bar his homebase. He had only lived in Wheatland for six months but everybody in town knew who Joe was. Because Wyoming cut through his stage act, perfected for 37 years in New Hampshire, and allowed his soul to shine for the first fucking time in his life. And people in Wheatland responded to that. These people were straight shooters, no bullshit, and they appreciated honesty of character.

Instant connection.

For 37 years Joe had lapsed into the typical coma most people succumb to when every detail of their life bores and numbs them. But now he was alive and living life with a vengeance. He never knew life could feel so alive, but he was taking full advantage of this newfound knowledge.

Driving fast on open roads, beer and whiskey, speaking his mind, singing with the band on the small stage in the corner of The Commodore. Spending time with women, tough guys, small town philosophers, young hopefuls, and elderly sages. Enjoying quiet conversation, arguments, and live music.

Joe was grinning like an idiot as he slowed to make the turn into Wheatland. Five minutes later he pulled into the parking lot of the Commodore Bar. Five cars in the parking lot - four pickups, one SUV. He was singing High Cost of Low Living to himself as he walked confidently towards the door.

As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he returned the greetings of everyone in the bar. Joe clapped his hand on Larry's shoulder, his 80 year old buddy sitting at the end of the bar wearing his dirty, beat up truckers hat. Larry grinned back at him. He gave Janet a quick kiss on the cheek, sitting in a booth taking her break. He high fived Bobby as he walked by the group of six younguns.

When he got to the bar, there was a PBR and a double shot of Crown waiting for him. He thanked Lucy and settled in for a night of live music - could be country, could be rock, could be blues. It didn't matter.

Joe was where he was supposed to be.

Finally.

Taking Care of The Kid

Home alone today. Carol's taking care of The Kid. Gone from 8 to 5.

Just watched and listened to Metalllica on Howard Stern. They talked, they played.

Their music hijacks my spirit and takes me soaring. I laughed a bit as they talked, felt reflective during Nothing Else Matters, intense during Enter Sandman. Emotions fired up and leaning towards defiance.

Immediately after that I listened to James Taylor with Howard. JT is such an unassuming yet intensely empathetic man. Beautiful, human lyrics. Tears in my eyes as my heart swelled up to fill my entire chest cavity.

I love the intensity of my emotions, the breath-taking roller coaster ride that in the space of a heartbeat careens from joy to defiance to empathy.

I love that about myself.

Yesterday (Like Mardi Gras)

Snagged myself a new knee on July 30 - home on July 31.

I have not been outside this house since.

It is wearing thin but, really, I could not get out of here without killing myself until recently. At this point I can go for rides with Carol - I can't drive yet - maybe this weekend. Defintely Monday - I start outpatient physical therapy then. Anyway..................I have been homebound for weeks now.

Yesterday one of my best friends in the world came to see me. Dave. My good, good friend since 1977. Coming up on fifty years, baby. He made a two hour round trip just to check up on me.

We had a great conversation, great visit.

Simultaneously, Carol's car had to be picked up from being repaired. I couldn't get her there because I can't drive.  Amanda stepped up to drive Carol to the repair place and of course she had Jackson with her. So when Carol, Amanda, and Jackson got back, Dave was here. Amanda and Jackson stuck around to visit with me.

Mardi Gras, baby! So good to have people to shoot the shit with. People I love. It really hit home how much their company meant to me yesterday - an oasis of comfort amidst pain and weird-new-knee shit. Got my mind off of tough things and on to real things.

Craig followed Carol to drop her car off last week (fucking thing has been in there for a week - fortunately it only cost $78,000 to fix) - so I got to visit with him and Jackson that night.

After they left yesterday, the in-home therapist showed up to clear me for take-off. She had her fancy plastic knee torture measurer with her. I had to be able to contort my knee to 90 degrees to get approval to move on to outpatient therapy.

I scored a 96, baby - I do NOT fuck around.

Awesome visit with family and friend, and I passed the audition for outpatient therapy.

Yesterday was fucking Mardi Gras for me, baby!

The Intrigue of Fatigue

I am an emotional man.

I get emotional about being emotional. This knee thing is exacerbating the whole deal.

Because...........................

I am always tired. Virtually exhausted. I already slept like shit before sugery; since surgery I sleep even less.

This is common. I'm plugged in to a few knee replacement pages on facebook. Everybody says fatigue hangs in there tenaciously. No one sleeps well. Not sure what it is. I don't feel any pain at the end of the day, I do not wake up in pain. But I do wake up - much earlier than I would like to. Maybe the trauma scars the brain.

I never get more than 4 hours sleep, sometimes just 3.

Then there's the pain. It does not hurt all day long. In fact it hurts when I exercise and when I walk, but when I'm chillin' I get little pain. Except the occasional bolt of pain, which comes out of nowhere a few times a day and gets my attention.

So I'm tired, and there is pain. Which makes it even harder to control my emotions.

Craig sent me an awesome picture of Jackson - I laughed, then I cried. What? 

That's one example. Other crying events have happened.

I am also short of temper and patience.

And still.................Carol hangs around.

My tough guy image is being compromised. I can't intimidate anyone with tears.

Scouting New Careers: When I get through this thing, by way of compensation, I intend to launch my MMA career.

Can't talk right now, I gotta go to the bathroom.

And I'm already crying just thinking about it.

The Problem Is.....

 The problem is, I am trying to get stronger at the precise moment that I am weakest.

Ask Yourself

 Is it better to believe in a dead dream, or to believe in nothing at all?

Scouting New Careers

 I am fully prepared to become a roofer when the knee heals.

All Things Considered

 Happy Anniversary to Me!

Exactly two weeks ago Dr. D hacked my real knee out of my body and replaced it with some bionic shit.

I am actually walking around my kitchen a bit WITHOUT a walker. Living dangerously, baby - living dangerously.

I want to go to the nearest cool bar, order up a beautiful medium rare blue cheese burger, down two ice cold Blue Moons and two shots of Crown, and fucking laugh.

But there is a catch. The only chair I can sit in is my recliner. A kitchen chair, or my office chair brings on high-powered pain. Unfortunately this is normal at this stage.

A bar stool could result in amputation.

So, guess I'll celebrate by watching Law & Order with Carol. Grunt my way through 3 workouts between now and 6:00. Maybe watch some sports. Have a beer.

Not exciting, but it could be worse.

All things considered.

You Gotta Start Somewhere

 I do not want to get up today.

I want to lie here and feel sorry for myself and wallow in depression, misery, sadness, sorrow, woe and gloom.

I want to be The Heavyweight Pantywaist Champion of the World.

I'm getting up.

No Promises

I don't go to high school reunions.

I went to one - 5 years - 10 years - I don't remember, and it was a joke. I believed from that point onward that reunions are a joke. I believe I was right.

Time passes. At some point a whole lot further down the road, I decided I would never attend a reunion out of embarrassment. Not a lot to talk about to your "friends" if you have pissed your life away. Unless you want to lie. And I wasn't going to go in there and tell everybody I am an enormous success, financially secure, with no worries.

Fuck that.

The 50th reunion was 2 years ago. I didn't go. A few of my friends tried to talk me into it, but I just couldn't do it. Felt a bit of emotion about that decision.

Last Saturday my class had a "we're all 70" party. A vast majority of us are 70 or turning 70. It was kind of off the cuff. It got brought up earlier this year and caught on.

They got a good crowd. I didn't go.

Pictures were posted on facebook on Sunday. It got to me. 

My class is trying to set a world record for early death. The number of people who graduated from my high school in 1972 who have died is way above the average. Already.

If they wait 5 years for another reunion, a whole lot more will be dead. Even if they hold one 2 years from now a bunch will have died.

I was truly bummed out Sunday morning as I checked out the pictures. Came out of left field. I didn't see it coming. When I decided not to go I felt practically nothing.

Next time? I'm not sure. I am getting older and weaker - maybe my resistance will be overcome.

Gotta have some ground rules, though. Discussions about my financial health and/or success professionally, are off the table. Happy to talk about my family. Overall I think the focus would have to be "Hey, look - Joe's still alive."

I could live with that.

I'm not making any promises.

Don't Get Cocky. Never Get Cocky.

I was just telling you about how I broke through a bit on this whole knee thing.

Today, my physical therapist showed up and took pain to a whole new level.

She pointed out that I was doing one of the exercises incorrectly; when she showed me how to do it right it fucking hurt. HURT! And it was exceptionally hard.

Then she told me that I should do this fucking exercise three times a day and do it just shy of me breaking into tears.

Are you fucking kidding me?

Nothing in this life is pure. There is always an angle, an agenda you're not aware of. With physical therapy it's all about specific goals for specific exercises that the therapists are measured on.

Flexibility is most important. So when it comes to heel slides - which is a brutal exercise, and this exercise we corrected today - which is also brutal, painful, and uncomfortable - therapists are fine with telling me "to the point of tears". Even though they are always saying "we don't want pain - if it hurts you won't want to do it. Pain is bad."

I know this because for these two exercises they have a cheesey little plastic measurement tool which they hold up to my bent knee while they say "we gotta get you to 90, we gotta get you to 90."

Because 90 is what the surgeon wants to hear before he will release me to outside therapy.

The therapist practically threatened me today - "3 times a day to the point of tears, and when I come back on Thursday we are going to get you there."

Maybe I should just fucking move so she can't find me.

My overall point is that it took me 9 fucking days to get to the point where I felt the exercises were even doing anything, where I suddenly felt confident and in control. Today she blew all of that up and regressed me back to a place where I dread the exercises again.

I have done the exercises twice today. It's 5:51 and I have to do them one more time. I do NOT want to do it.

Nurse Ratched is in the house.

Random

 Bing bang boom I'm moving 'round the room

Chip chap chop don't wanna see no cops

It's hot and hazy you drive me fucking crazy

Real good time I really love to rhyme

Break my bones I really love The Stones

No way to stop I gotta smoke some pot

I hate my past but love to drive real fast

No if's and buts I think you're fucking nuts

You're not Dennis but I love my fucking tennis

Let's take a cruise and drink a lot of booze

There weren't another other way to be, for lovable losers, no account boozers, and honky-tonk heroes like me

Get shit done I LOVE to have my fun

I have my books and my poetry to protect me

Let's get down I truly love this town

Don't go far I'll meet you in my bar

We'll play real cool just sitting on our stools

I'm hale and hearty it's time to fucking party

Tomorrow morning you'll get a fucking warning

You mess with me I'll break your fucking knees

Ciao

I Gotta Think About This

 "It is better to be unhappy and know the worst, than to be happy in a fool's paradise."

Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Clubber Lang Got It Right (But Rocky Won)

 In Rocky III Clubber Lang is asked "What's your prediction for the fight?"

He says "My prediction? Pain!" He could have been talking about knee replacement surgery.

This fucking knee thing ain't nothing but pain. I turned a bit of a corner this weekend, I am doing the exercises - working them hard - started walking around my kitchen without the walker, in under two weeks!

Bottom line - I have come a long way in a short time but it still fucking hurts. IT HURTS!

BUT I DID turn a corner. The pain no longer owns me - I own the fucking pain. Heel slides are by far THE hardest exercise I do. And probably the most important. From Wednesday last week through this past Thursday, I had to take deep breaths, psyche myself up, and deal with that fucking exercise from an apprehensive place. Suddenly on Friday my whole attitude changed - I was like "you will not beat me motherfucker, I am not afraid of you, I will take your punishment and spit in your face."

And I pulled my leg back further than I ever had. Again yesterday, again today.

Previously I felt almost sick, a lot.  A little nauseous from time to time. Constant exhaustion and pain, discomfort, worry. Psychologically and physically beat down.

Suddenly I am feeling confident. I feel so much better mentally and physically. And I am attacking the workouts.

Still hurts. Still stiff as hell. Sometimes I'm sitting in my chair feeling pretty good and I'll suddenly get a bolt of pain, or throbbing, or discomfort out of nowhere.

But I am no longer taking any of this lying down. I will win this fucking war and come back stronger.

Don't forget, Clubber Lang predicted pain but he lost the fucking fight!

Cue the music - Gonna Fly Now.

Strange Things

Strange things happen to me. All the time. Practically every fucking day. What is it about me that draws this attention? I'm a nice guy, everybody loves me - don't they?

I walked into Walmart the other day to buy a caulking gun, when this old guy walked up to me with a baseball bat and bashed the shit out of my head. I was in the perfect place, cutting through the outdoor amusements section, standing next to a trampline that was standing on edge. The old guy would take a swing, my head would bounce off the trampoline, right back into the path of his bat. He kept saying "How's that feel, asshole" before each swing. I didn't even know the guy. What the hell is going on?

This happened five times in rapid succession until I collapsed to the ground. An employee found me 15 minutes later. I looked up through the blood flowing down from the side of my head. She said "Didn't you work here a couple of months ago?" I mumbled something incoherent. She said "I thought so. Get the fuck out of here" and walked away.

45 minutes later I finally crawled through the front door, scraped across the parking lot, and managed to haul myself into the back seat of my car, where I spent the next two days.

I woke up hungry.

So I went to a 99 restaurant, a warm and friendly place. I slumped into a booth, but when the waitress showed up she said "You can't sit in a booth by yourself, for Christ sake - I'm moving you to a table." I followed her silently, only because of the beatdown, and the fact that I had not eaten for two days.

After 25 minutes a waiter came by and asked "Well, what do you want?" I said I could sure use a beer. He said "You look drunk already, I'm not serving you a beer - you'll have a Pepsi." Then "What do you want to eat?"

I said I could sure use a steak. He said "You don't look like you can afford a steak - I'm bringing a hot dog."

I ate quickly - I did not feel welcome. When I went to pay the check I realized I lost my wallet during the beatdown. The waiter said "You're fucking kidding me, right?" Then he wrapped me in a bearhug and dragged me into the kitchen. It fucking hurt. He told the kitchen manager I was his new temporary dishwasher.

He made me wash dishes for two hours, with no fucking gloves. My hands were badly burned. Then he dragged me through the restaurant as people pointed and laughed. He pushed me out the door and kicked me in the ass.

Once again, I dragged myself to my car and crawled into the back seat.

I'm sure tomorrow will be better.

Most of Her Life

 "The thing was, she wanted desperately to be someone else, anyone other than who she was. Most of her life she had felt, believed, and hoped that one day she would do something about it. With each passing year, however, that hope grew more and more hollow, more and more like a dream that one day would break completely free from her and drift away until finally, when she was the shrunken, wrinkled owner of a quickly fading, unremarkable life, she would no longer remember she had ever possessed such dreams. Every day her bleak future became more and more graphic, like a TV with an antenna finally attached."

From The Winner, by David Baldacci

Movement is Improvement

Carol had breast cancer and endured a mastectomy.

She had a tumor removed from her brain. I had skin hacked off my body because of skin cancer. 41 sessions of radiation to beat prostate cancer. Now I got a new knee because the original fucking failed.

This is what life does. It beats the living shit out of you. It does not give up until you succumb.

We are 70 years old. What else must we endure? More.

What do we have?

Keith and Craig. Two sons so strong and so accomplished. Better men than me. Amanda and Krista - the women they love. Strong, unique, smart, intelligent and fun. Jackson Joseph Testa. Our grandson, almost 5 months old. The most precious life on earth.

I could expand the circle, because we are lucky to have lots of loving family and great friends, but I gotta keep this under control.

The point is - Carol and I have been through a lot. The knee is one more thing. But I have to come out of this in a different way than all the rest. With the other shit I just went back to the same old same old. Not an option this time. This is why I am making a big deal about this.

It's an opportunity.

I am a weak individual in body and mind. Especially mind. But I have to be strong to get through this, and I am doing it. No matter how tired I am, what kind of pain is going on, how down I am feeling, I do the fucking exercises. I do them. And I push myself.

This discipline is building character. I can feel it.

I am learning shit about myself that is changing my opinion of myself.

Knee replacement people say "movement is improvement". I am creating movement of my body and, more importantly, movement of my mind. Changing my perspective. Strengthening my conviction to live the way I want to live.

I want my family to see the real me.