Under The Knife

I'm going under the knife tomorrow.

A little nervous, but looking forward to a pain free knee. They tell me titanium steel and plastic feel no pain. I like the sound of that. Wish my heart and soul were made of the same materials.

Got myself a good deal. Bought a knee at Walmart for $29.99, and lined up a surgeon on the black market who has six months of medical school under his belt. He will do the job for $250 and a carton of Marlboro Red 100's.

It's been a long and painful ride with some wrong turns. Let's try exercise, let's try cortisone shots, let's perform surgery on your torn meniscus, let's just replace the whole damn thing.

Big problem was that my original orthopaedic genius didn't know his ass from his elbow. I lost years because of him. 

The new guy, the one doing the knee replacement, is directly descended from God. And he loves sports. And rock n' roll. He has lots of autographed pictures in his examination room of Celtics, Bruins, Red Sox and Patriots. The last time I saw him I was wearing a Stones t-shirt and we had a very satisfying discussion 'bout the Stones, their age, their chops, Keith versus Mick etc.

I cannot go wrong with Dr. D.

I have a walker and crutches in the house. I even have a fucking shower seat. A FUCKING SHOWER SEAT! 

Feels like when I get home on Wednesday I will have aged 40 years. But I am not taking that lying down. I will rehab the hell out of that knee to the point where in one month's time I will actually shave ten years off my age.

I am looking forward to being 60 again.

That's it. I am signing off. Have a good thought.

You will hear from me as I rehab.

You can't avoid it.

Ciao, baby.

Exactly The Right Medicine

Coming back from last minute errands, trying to put everything in place for Rehabalooza.

Sweet Child O' Mine exploded onto Ozzie's Boneyard. I turned that motherfucker up to maximum volume and came rolling into our garage on a cloud of courage.

I will come back from this thing tomorrow stronger and better than ever.

I aim to perfect myself.

No More Pets

OK. No more talking about pets in here.

It is pointless and pays no dividends.

I am trying to express a depth of emotion that cannot be expressed. So I look like an idiot.

LAST TRY: A deep connection with a pet is immensely beneficial psychologically and physically, health-wise.

That is a universal statement that all pet lovers can agree with.

OK.

I'm done.

Some Love is Simple

Let's re-examine this whole pet thing. It's important.

My relationship with Patsy is lifesaving. She brings me peace, contentment, and happiness. Everyone loves their pets, but I am going to give you details to back up my claim.

History: Carol and I have had nine cats over the years. Bandit and Nugget and Lucifer. Lokai and Max. Maka and Lakota. And now, Patsy and Emmy Lou. And one precious, special dog - Onyx. 

I have loved all of these pets. Well, except two - Lokai was a bit of a bitch and Lucifer was a flaming asshole. But as for the rest - I have loved them deeply and with extreme prejudice. But I have never had a relationship with a cat like the one I have with Patsy.

The most important thing is that she lets me love her the way I want to love her. This is important. We are on the same wavelength. I love intensely. I am Italian. I am emotional. I have to express my love physically. I shrivel up and die if I can't do that. I have to hug. I have to kiss.

When she climbs onto my lap Patsy lets me wrap my arms around her, hug her and kiss her on the head without squirming or trying to get down. Most of the time she climbs up, sits her ass on my belly, and drapes herself over the arm of the recliner - so she is right up close to me. Then she will tip her head backwards and look me in the eye - she melts me. I can caress her paw in my hand without her pulling away. 

When I am wandering around the house (sometimes she follows me like a puppy dog room to room, rubbing up against my legs every time I stop)) I can pick her up and hug her tight and kiss her head as she purrs. I love Emmy Lou fiercely as well, but she is squirmy, elusive, skinny, wiry, and insane. Picking her up is like juggling spaghetti.

When Patsy is draped over the arm of the recliner she sometimes grabs my hand with her paws, draws it to her and licks it. She drools when she gets affectionate. When my arm dangles off the side of the recliner under her she drools onto my hand. I don't mind.

She is a good sized cat but has a tiny, little meow that makes me smile. We talk a lot.

Ultimately I am trying to describe an intangible to make it tangible. It can't be done. I can never make you understand the love I have for Patsy and the love she has for me.

The closest I can come is to say she accepts my love exactly as I want to give it, and she gives me her love exactly the way I want it to be given.

That is no small gift.

Slash

Just ran out to pick up stuff, stock up so to speak, for recovery time.

Stuff like bags of kitty litter, Poland Spring water, things I don't want Carol to have to muscle around when I am semi-helpless.

Ozzy's Boneyard booming on the radio (I have really been listening to that a lot lately - perhaps a defense against surgery) when Slash's birthday was announced. The man is 59 today. I began to lapse into my "holy shit time is zipping right along" reverie when the DJ followed up the birthday announcement to say that Slash will not be celebrating today because his step-daughter died over the weekend. 

Her name is Lucy-Bleu Knight. She was 25.

Guns N' Roses released Appetite For Destruction on July 21, 1987 - two days before Slash's 22nd birthday. I inhaled that album. Ate it, snorted it, wore the fucking thing out. It fueled my hatred of the job I had at that time - along with the commute I fucking hated - 1 and 1/2 hours each way. 

Hunter S. Thompson said: "Music has always been a matter of Energy to me, a question of Fuel. Sentimental people call it Inspiration, but what they really mean is Fuel. I have always needed Fuel. I am a serious consumer. On some nights I still believe that a car with the gas needle on empty can run about fifty more miles if you have the right music very loud on the radio." 

That is exactly what that album was to me. Exactly. It fired me up, it inspired me and made me feel brave and defiant, it gave me the guts to deal with asshole leasing reps, it kept me from moving to Australia, and it was perfect for driving 20 miles over the speed limit on the highway. 

On hot summmer nights leaving work I would take off in a cloud of dust, stop at a local liquor store to purchase supplies, take my shirt off in the parking lot, and crank Appetite until the speakers were on the verge of exploding while ecstatically drinking beer and Ginger brandy on the ride home.

I was a sight to see, baby.

So Slash was just about 22 when the album was released, I was 33. Now Slash has a step-daughter who has died at the age of 25, he is 59, and I am 70.

I'm not really going anywhere with this. I guess I'm thinking that life is a bumpy ride, man. Ups and downs. And it seems like life breaks you down more often than it lifts you up. I mean you are more likely to deal with death than you are to win the fucking lottery.

Go kiss somebody. Have a good thought. Lighten up on yourself. Have some fucking fun - guilt-free. Listen to some music, have a drink, drive fast, and try to not give a shit once in a while.

That's all I got.

Lyrics

 "I did my best, it wasn't much, I couldn't feel so I tried to touch, I've told the truth, I didn't come to fool ya, and even though it all went wrong, I'll stand before the Lord of Song, with nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah"

Hallelujah, by Leonard Cohen

"Never cared for what they say, never cared for games they play, never cared for what they do, never cared for what they know..................

So close no matter how far, couldn't be much more from the heart, forever trusting who we are, no, nothing else matters"

Nothing Else Matters, Metallica

From Demon Copperhead

 "Counting on Jesus to save the day is no more real than sending up the Batman signal"

"I wanted to tell them this right here that you're looking at is my potential. What the fuck would you call it? Do you seriously think this is the person I wanted to end up living inside of?"

"The wonder is that you could start life with nothing, end with nothing, and lose so much in between."

Demon Copperhead, by Barbara Kingsolver

A Walker; Crutches....................

Got me a walker, got me some crutches.

I am ready to go. But it is disturbing to see these goddamn things in Carol's craft room every time I walk by. A reminder of what's to come - in more ways than one. Now, and in ten years, fifteen years??????

Oh well - what the fuck. I need the knee replacement and know it is the right thing to do. I've tried everything else with this goddamn thing - it's time to try some new hardware. I will need crutches for sure, maybe the walker - but a month after that I'll be dancing the ballet.

As far as a walker down the road, I prefer not to think about it - I don't like the visual. I take pretty good care of myself, I exercise (like a pig-donkey) a lot and pretty strenuously. Barring health catastrophes I should be mobile and independent for many years to come.

After surgery I will technically be Super Human - invincible and bionic. Recovery will be a month of commitment, inconvenience, and discomfort. Once I get through that I will literally be Super Human -  a NEW MAN.

The first thing I'm gonna do with my new leg is kick your ass.

Need More of That

Still kicking ass.

Exercising like a pig-donkey, dieting like a motherfucker.

Actually, I am overstating the dieting thing. If I was truly dieting like a motherfucker it would be black coffee, one apple a day, one tin of tuna a day. Actually it would have to be a tin of chicken - I fucking hate seafood.

But I am eating a lot less, eating a lot better. I have to enjoy myself sometime, no? On Sunday night I allow myself ice cream, and it is better than heroin. It would be an unspeakably horrible twist of fate for me to "diet like Bale" and expire under the surgeons handsaw.

Somedays I feel like fucking Superman. Like today. And yesterday. I feel supreme. Christ, I love it.

Then there is the psychological angle. Not so easy.

Everday, my mind wrestles with concerns about jobs and money and making the right decision so I can have a job and make money doing something I enjoy. Something that utilizes my natural talent. Which is................................

I go to job search websites, job advice websites, how to websites, state job websites, headhunter websites, old people job websites like AARP and Retirement Jobs.

I go to writing websites that offer jobs and advice and point me to other websites where I can search for jobs and advice. I am writing and submitting stuff again. Getting rejected.

I'm worried about this knee thing. I'm worried about the month of August - I hope the rehab delivers maximum results in minimum time.

Everyday I wrestle with self-esteem.

STOP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Too much too fast. Fucking overload!

I sacrificed a chance to be with my grandson Jackson yesterday so I could focus on shutting my brain the fuck down. Carol took care of him, she was gone for 8 and 1/2 hours.

I shut everything down. I watched a lot of golf, which brings me great piece. I exercised in the morning, I exercised in the afternoon. I watched some racing. I read. I ate well.

I did not visit one fucking website. Not one. Did not check email (I get a thousand a day because of all the websites I monitor). Stayed away from my phone. Everytime worry invaded my thoughts I forced myself to focus on DAN BROWN (who had a magical day at The Open yesterday, not so much today - golf is a cruel sport).

My day was spectacular. I felt so relaxed, so calm, that I actually enjoyed being alive.

I need more of that.

I need a lot more of that.

P.S. - I will be spending time with Jackson tomorrow. Bonus, baby - bonus!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Secret Addiction

I have a secret addiction that Carol doesn't know about.

Ozzy's Boneyard on Sirius XM. I listen to it. LOUD. I love it. But not when Carol is in the car.

Carol's musical tastes are much narrower than my own. She is highly critical of music she doesn't like. And, in her defense, with deafness in one ear, loud music is a problem for her.

When I am alone in my car I blast that shit to the high heavens. Especially in the summertime. Yeah, baby!

I was running around yesterday doing stuff, assaulting my eardrums, listening to the Boneyard and smiling as I rolled.

Here I Go Again came on. By White Snake. You know the song - we all know the song. I have heard it a million times, but yesterday it hit me differently.

I am receiving information differently these days - music, the written word, my experiences. My thoughts go off on unpredictable tangents. SO MUCH has happened to me in the past 8 and 1/2 months that my brain has been re-wired. You can hear the buzz if you get close to me. Ripe for change but not quite motivated enough. The explosion will come. The sequence has been activated and cannot be stopped. 

An inevitable conclusion is coming my way.

"I don't know where I'm going, but I sure know where I've been, hanging on the promises in songs of yesterday, and I've made up my mind, I ain't wasting no more time, here I go again, here I go again, though I keep searching for an answer, I never seem to find what I'm looking for, oh Lord, I pray you give me strength to carry on...........

'Cause I know what it means, to walk along the lonely street of dreams"

That's me, folks. Searching for answers, never finding what I'm looking for. I don't know where I'm going but I do know I better get it right. I have made up my mind - I ain't wasting no more time. I gotta deal with this fucking knee replacement and it is holding me in limbo. And will while I recover too. But I plan on being a new man when I come out the other side of this thing. I have to be a new man. And fuck me if I'm not.

I walk along the lonely street of dreams every fucking day. I am a dreamer. I am a loner.

"Here I go again on my own, going down the only road I've ever known, like a drifter I was born to walk alone..........."

I have a strong and fiercely loving family. I have a few solid friends. I am lonely.

It has always been that way. Alone in my head. Lonely. It is what it is.

The song hit me hard yesterday. I liked it. Made me feel alive.

Ugly World

 I watched a movie the other night where a guy underwent shoulder surgery and ended up with brain damage!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 

What the fuck? What is it with these movies and major surgery? I don't need brain damage - my brain is damaged enough!

AND

During pre-op testing on Tuesday, the nurse practitioner listening to my heart said she heard a murmur. What? News to me. She stressed it was minor, absolutely not worth worrying about, not unusual for "men my age." Suggested I bring it up with my own Dr. Feelgood at my next physical.

Then I got a call when I got home - my kidney numbers were "off". Apparently I am dehydrated, which is insane - I am a water guy - I drink about 50 ounces a day. I also drink coffee, tea, and juice. Nevertheless, she wants me to drink even more water - approximately 75 bottles a day. Then I have to go back for additional bloodwork before surgery.

My next physical is in December - I did not want to wait until then to talk murmur with my Dr. Feelgood - so I emailed her yesterday.

She got back to me and said don't worry about it, no big deal. She ordered up an echocardiogram to "check the valves and chambers of my heart as well as its pumping capability" but stressed that I don't need to have it done before surgery.

I understand the medical community is way over the top when it comes to highlighting every tiny, little thing that might affect your health these days. So truthfully I believe there is nothing to worry about. (?)

However, there exists another possibility - they're plotting to kill me. "Heart murmur? No worries - nothing to see here. Kidney numbers off? Big deal - suck it up, loser. Trust us."

I die on the table, they instigate a massive cover-up - denial, lies, excuses. They point Carol to my life insurance policy. They chop my body up and sell off the parts in the black market. Whatever they can't sell goes to McDonald's.

It's an ugly world, folks.

Hack That Shit Out of Me

I am scheduled for knee replacement at the end of the month.

SO

I am exercising like a pig-donkey, dieting like a motherfucker.

I plan on being as healthy as I can possibly be when they cut that bad boy out of me and replace it with a titanium/plastic Super Knee.

Strange stuff, don't you think? Hacking my real knee out of my body, replacing it with titanium and plastic. How bizarre, how bizarre.

I started too late on the weight loss thing - I'll probably end up losing .3oz before surgery but, fuck it - I am 70 years old. To lose ten pounds before surgery I would have had to start dieting in 2019. Fuck it - I am trying. And to keep from gaining 75 pounds during recovery, I'll have to eat like a hummingbird.

Since we moved to Nirvana I have been exercising religiously, but for surgery I have kicked it up a notch. Pushing hard enough that I really feel like I am accomplishing something.

I am not excited about the surgery but I am excited about a pain-free knee. Been dealing with this for far too long. Can you spell procrastination?  I mean this type of surgery is fucking routine these days, no big deal - but surgery is surgery. I am not shitting my pants but I am nervous. And just for fun the other night Carol and I watched a movie where part of the story involves a person who dies during routine surgery because of problems with anesthesia. What the fuck? We did not know that was part of the plot.

I was thrilled.

Spinal block - a procedure that numbs part of the body to block pain by injecting a local anesthetic or opioid into the subarachnoid space around the spinal cord. Shit, man - I'm getting me one of those - to numb pain from the waist down. Again, not excited but sometimes you just gotta roll the dice.

I probably would not enjoy knee replacement without anesthesia.

I had a bunch of pre-op testing done today. Got the instruction manual - do's and don'ts day of surgery and while recovering. Looking at probably four to six weeks to resume most normal activities - up to as much as a full year for full recovery.

I am scheduled for follow-up four weeks after surgery and Dr. Feelgood told me at that point most men "my age" can drive themselves to the appointment and walk with crutches and sometimes without.

I think I'll bounce back pretty quickly.

Carol will have to take care of me initially when I am just a lump of helpless. I can see her evolution over four weeks. From my own personal Angel to Nurse Ratched.

If surgery doesn't kill me, Carol will.

Nerve Endings Tingle

Sy Safransky is the founder and editor of The Sun.

The Sun is a magazine I have been reading for decades. It is human, personal, quirky sometimes, honest, and raw. These are attributes I require as much as oxygen. Unfortunately, oxygen is much more generally available.

A guy on Sy's staff recently described conversations with Sy as "serious and heartfelt and sad and unguarded yet somehow never cloying or sentimental." This appeals to me. I wish I could meet the man.

I enjoy engaging in conversations that are serious, heartfelt, and sad - honest conversations. I struggle with unguarded, and with not being cloying or sentimental.

Unguarded for sure. I am in a prison of my own making. But I can perform on command in many situations.

Cloying and sentimental. I am a man of raging emotions. Emotions rule and consume me. I get emotional about everything. Emotions sap my energy because humans are not designed to be emotional 24/7. Human beings are designed to submit, to obey commands, and to bury their emotions under a shit-ton of delusional justifications.

My emotions burn me out, brother.

Which is why I think - maybe - just maybe - I come across as cloying and sentimental in serious, heartfelt, and sad conversations.

But, given what I have to work with, I can accept my raging emotions. They are proof that I am alive. My nerve endings tingle when emotions flood my bloodstream. 

My soul smiles appreciatively.

Sy Safransky

Sy Safransky started a magazine called The Sun in 1974.

I don't remember when I discovered it, but I have been reading it for decades. Apparently he accepted ads until 1990. When readership reached 10,000 he dropped ads from the magazine to transform it into a reader-supported publication.

I always describe The Sun as human, personal, quirky sometimes, honest, and raw. The writing really connects with my emotions and my soul. It is very much down to earth, real people writing real stories/essays/poems. There is a Readers Write section that publishes letters from readers that are almost always deeply personal, raw, and honest.

When you read the magazine regularly, you feel like you know Sy Safransky, like you connect with him.

Sy recently went public with a diagnosis of alzheimers disease. He has stepped down to the position of editor emeritus. He published the magazine for fifty years.

This news breaks my heart. Especially for Sy, tangentially for me. 

I have derived so much pleasure from reading this magazine over the years, and will continue to do so for as long as I can read. I respect the stand Sy took in 1990 to drop ads from the magazine - it did not make his life any easier and took a lot of guts to do. And a deep belief in himself and his staff.

I always felt Sy's influence kind of setting the tone for the words that were feeding my heart and my soul. 

But he is no longer in charge. Of the magazine or his life.

And me? Another dagger in my own heart, not so subtly reminding me of my age. So many of the people I loved and respected over the years........................you know the drill.

I have to learn to accept it. It does me no good to mourn my age. I am trying hard to celebrate the amazing gifts I have been given recently.

Some days I win, some days I lose.

Wrong Way!

 A desperate need for a "Come to Jesus Moment",  results from a lifetime of wrong turns.

The Curse of Sensitivity

 The mind suffers and the body cries out.

Comes A Time

There comes a time in your life when you realize you can no longer make promises. 

You have no credibility.

When you cannot tell loved ones you will change. When you cannot fool yourself that you are acting in ways to improve your life.

When you can no longer avoid the fact that all you have been doing your entire life is repeating the same mistakes, the same opinions, the same approaches, the same excuses. The same lies.

When you suddenly realize you have pissed away decades - fucking decades - not learning from your mistakes or your pain.

When you suddenly realize that the time that has passed, dwarfs the time remaining. 

Exponentially.

It is not a comfortable feeling.

It's fucking terrifying.

As Your Soul Rots

 If you smile sadly at the good fortune of others, your soul is empty.

Without Hesitation or Consideration

A hot July afternoon burdened with forboding of explosive events.

Emotional as well as meterorological.

Bobby was straining to dig the stump out of the ground. He had taken the tree down three years ago and vowed to remove the stump immediately. But procrastination was his strong point. Some would say weak point, but he was good at it. You gotta be good at something in life, if only to justify putting your feet on the floor every morning. In Bobby's case, procrastination would have to do.

He was sweating like a pig and had taken his t-shirt off an hour ago, not caring if the neighbors were offended by the revolting gut hanging over his belt. He hoped it made them sick; provoking the neighbors was sport to him. He hated people. Despised meaningless conversation made for the sake of killing awkward silences.

If he was going to listen to someone, they better have something to say. Even better, they should make him laugh. And when he spoke, they better fucking listen. His words mattered.

Bobby switched from water to beer a little while ago. Not a smart move in this heat, but he was not one to worry about consequences. People who considered consequences, ended up doing nothing. Fucking losers. Bobby did shit. And his shit mattered.

He was going at the stump with a pickaxe. Not a chain saw, because he didn't trust himself with a chain saw, given the condition of his marriage.

He took another swig of his PBR tallboy. Shit, this stuff was good. A cooler sat next to him, originally stocked with a dozen beers, but the inventory had dwindled considerably. Ice cold, baby - that was the only way to have it.

He loved the beer and loved to chase it with whiskey. Until chasing wasn't enough - then it was whiskey time! Beer fills you up, whiskey cuts right to the point. No wasted time. No whiskey right now, though - that would have been a bit much in this heat. Still....................

Bobby stopped every once in a while to question his industriousness. What the fuck was he doing? He had to be back at work tomorrow. Work was tough because it was combative. He wasn't gonna roll over for anyone, so he had to sneer at the boss and intimidate his workmates. Aloneness was what he craved; it was his natural state. But fucking bills do not allow for aloneness. You gotta go out and get money.

What a stupid fucking world.

He should be relaxing. But his wife was in the house.

His fingers wrapped around the nip in the side pocket of his cargo pants. Whiskey, baby. Water of life. He slipped it in there before heading out to the back yard. Told himself he'd save it for when the work was done. As a reward. He knew it wouldn't last that long. It was fucking warm, hot really, but Bobby downed it in one swallow. Disgusting, but effective.

The pickaxe chipped off another meaningless piece of stump. Jesus Christ - this was gonna take forever. It was Sunday. Football Sunday. Christ - the heat, the wife, and the job had turned his mind to mush.

Another beer made the trip from the cooler to his lips. He took a long, satisfying pull on that ice cold bad boy. As he was putting it down, he noticed the neighbor shaking his head, sliding the curtain back in place, and walking away from the window.

Fucking pretty boy. A lawyer with a fat bank account, snobby attitude, soft hands, and a Porsche.

The enemy.

Without hesitation or consideration, Bobby hurled the pickaxe through the neighbor's window, then calmly walked into his house to wait for the cops. He stared down his wife, who did not dare say a word, grabbed a bottle of whiskey and dialed up the NFL on the tube. It was fucking Sunday.

This was more like it.

Good To Have Options

 "If anything in this life is certain, if history has taught us anything, it is that you can kill anyone."

Michael Corleone in Godfather: Part II

This is a Moment (Maybe My Last)

I have tripped over a few crossroads in my life. Blew it every time. 1972. 1979. 1983. 2002. 2016. Should have made changes, did not make changes. Stayed the course and paid the price. A harsh price because the course was not my own.

2023/2024. Another crossroad. The Stones said it best: "Well, this could be the last time, this could be the last time, maybe the last time, I don't know." I mean how many fucking chances does one human get?

And I have stumbled. 

The state of my soul is in serious disrepair - I have the power to heal it. Carol and I need stability but it has to be on my terms.

Took on two jobs since I have been up here - quit them both. Because they were the wrong fucking jobs. Every job I have ever had has been the wrong fucking job, except tending bar, and I don't have the energy or inspiration to do that now.

I am crystal clear about what has happened in my life in the past 8 months. A door has opened wide - I have space to breathe - I can take a little time to think, to decide, and to act.

"This is the time of your life, what you gonna do with it? Don't fool with it. This is the time of your life. You better face it, don't waste it. Don't think about the future, don't think about the past. There's just this moment, better make it last. You better get it right 'cause this is the time of your life."

From The Time of Your Life, Little Steven (Steven Van Zandt)

That is exactly how I feel. I feel those words as if Jesus Christ himself were whispering them in my ear.

I am not afraid. I do feel some pressure. What is at stake? Stability for Carol and me. My happiness. My pride. My soul.

Have I learned the right lessons? Do I have the knowledge and the balls to do what is right for me? Finally?

I don't know. But I have learned what failure feels like. I despise the feeling.

"With age comes wisdom, but sometimes age comes alone."    Oscar Wilde

That's the rub. Seems like, had I accumulated wisdom over 70 years, I would feel it. There would be a depth, a conviction of the soul powerful enough to overcome doubt.

I am not sure. Maybe I have it, maybe I don't.

I feel more even-tempered than I have for a long, long time. Maybe that is wisdom.

Doesn't matter. I am searching for answers. Actively. Ultimately, I am looking to re-write the story of my life. 

I am hoping to edit my epitaph before someone else writes it for me.

The World Has Finally Caught Up With Me

There is a new Crown Royal ad; the music in the background is Midnight Rider, by The Allman Brothers.

This is perfection.

And I am a genius.

Diluted and Polluted

What we call progress is really decay.

Everything gets diluted and polluted. You start out with something original back in the day, something good. Over time - and I am not sure if this is particular to America or not - it gets weak. Feeble. Watered down.

SportsCenter. Was a spectacular show back in the day. Keith Olberman and Dan Patrick. Anchors in the early 90's.

Fucking hilarious. Intelligent humor. These guys made me laugh - made me laugh - while they informed and educated me about the sports world. There have been a million anchors over the years and I am sure there were plenty of good ones. Some with good senses of humor. But KO and DP set the standard for sharp wit and irreverence.

At some point the show became corporatized. Instead of allowing for originality, idiot corporate execs came up with a blueprint for how the show should be done. Loosely based on a sense of humor; supposed off the cuff comments, pseudo-witty asides. Except the people who do the show have no sense of humor, no personality, no unique perspective. So the show is predictable, boring, and unfunny. Explosive diarrhea is more enjoyable.

When I moved up here I lost my connection to sports. My schedule got jumbled, Good Morning Football is not currently on the air, blah blah blah. Ironically enough the Celtics re-kindled my interest. As they blasted their way through the finals I started tuning in to SportsCenter and talk shows to improve my Celtics IQ. So that's where this rant is coming from.

Brief aside: Am I supposed to like Pat McAfee? I think I do. Need a bigger sample size before the final decision.

More Evidence of Decay: Hostess Cupcakes. 

I love them. Always have. I go through periods of denying myself that pleasure, pretending that I am going to lose weight. Then I go back to them. I shudder to think of all the pleasurable foods I have denied myself over the years, delusionally believing I was doing myself some good. And I am still fat.

Carpe Diem, baby.

Up here I keep my cupboard stocked with Hostess Cupcakes. But they are smaller. They are definitely smaller. I have to eat three at a time to get the same satisfaction. Kidding.

And I think they taste different. Not worse, just different. Could just be in my head, though - I have that perpetual, old-person suspiciousness - I trust no one and nothing. You know the drill - "Things were so much better when I was young."

The good thing, the positive thing, is that my life has actually gotten better over the years. Explosively so at the age of 69. 

Pretty fucking amazing, don't you think?

NOW I Get It

 It takes a lot of luck to succeed, but if you don't even try, you will never have any fucking luck.

Nothing Worse

 You are reading a book.

Every time you turn the page, you turn two pages and you have to flip one back.

It is insane. Why is this happening? It drives you crazy.

Turn - two pages - Fuck! - flip one back - I just want to flow seamlessly with the story - that's all I want!!!!! No break in rhythm!

Why is this happening? Is it the texture of the pages? Is it the humidity? Is there some bizarre vibe zapping between your twisted brain and the book? Jesus!!!!!!

It's the worst thing in the world. I know you agree with me.

Nothing worse could ever happen to any human being in any circumstance.

I'm glad we agree.