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.

PLEASE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Get me out of this house!

I'm losing my fucking mind!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I'm Digging Bergamot

 Took a shower yesterday.

First time in 8 days. It was a magnificent experience. Sitting on my little shower stool like the King of the World. Saran wrap circling the new knee - taped and secure - in about 4 layers to keep the bandage dry.

Thank god for Carol. She wrapped that knee like a pro. If I did it, it would be flapping in the breeze. AND she put those stupid T.E.D. socks on after the shower - designed to prevent blood clots. So unfashionable.

And tight. Putting those suckers on is brutal. Carol got it done without ripping my new knee apart.

So I was fresh and clean .

Put on a brand new Allman Brothers t-shirt. Bought it on purpose. Because I NEED it.

I am trapped here. Can't leave the house. My day is walking, exercising, icing, falling asleep, then repeating the cycle as many times as possible. I am sick of it already.

I need to feel alive. I need to be me. This t-shirt makes me very happy.

And bergamot.

Wasn't quite done with the stick of Old Spice deoderant I've been using, but I had a brand new one waiting in the wings. "Scented with bergamot." What the fuck is bergamot? No clue. I bought it on a whim. Pretty radical, huh?

Threw the old stick away and applied bergamot. WOW! This stuff smells great.

So I am fresh and clean, wearing a brand new Allman Brothers t-shirt, and sporting deodorant that smells absolutely delightful.

I may still be hobbled with nowhere to go, but things are definitely looking better.

Don't you think?

The First Step of Pain

 Every morning I sit in my chair for 10 minutes after a I wake up, putting off getting up to take the first step of pain.

Because there will be pain. 

Right now I cannot avoid it. It hurts every single time I walk, every time I exercise. Awareness of unavoidable pain drains me. I am exhausted.

I'm getting up now.

The Main Thing

 Cracks me up that the Olympics are hyped as this Peace & Love thing, but all anybody cares about is the fucking medal count - By Country!

What's Coming

 I am not comfortable with who I am, but I am very comfortable with who I want to be.

Bar Rules

 Nobody ever walks into a bar and says" Give me a double whiskey."

They say "Give me a whiskey. Make it a double."

It's cooler that way.

Ravages

 I miss the easy movement of a young body.

Why Not Indeed

 I've been toying with the idea of talking about how frustrating it is sitting here with this fucking knee, watching healthy bodies doing healthy body things at the Olympics.

Ultimately I realized how stupid that is.

There are so many stories of athletes at the Olympics overcoming physical obstacles, emotional and psychological problems. Challenges with poverty, tragedy, illness - for themselves or their families.

And they shine! They win! They give more than their bodies have to offer, and fuel the deficit with heart and soul.

I'm taking in all the fuel I can to get me through this knee thing. I know you doubt me when I get defiant - I am the ultimate Boy Who Cried Wolf.

But I am taking in fuel. Just read a book on The PATS. Fuel. Watching the Olympics. Fuel.

Got a lot of time on my hands. Time to learn.

Anyway, the Olympics rock. The athletes are Gods. And inspirations.

"What you have does not define what you can become.

Why Not You!"

Competitors Compete

 Novac Djokovic cried when he won the Gold in Paris.

The man owns the world, yet one more achievement means everything to him.

We could all use a little of that special sauce.

Big Week

 Last week was a big week for me.

Milestones.

Saturday night I had my first taste of whiskey since the Saturday before.

I had an orgasm.

Last night, Sunday night, I took my first shit since Monday.

A satisfying accomplishment.

I still haven't taken a shower yet, though, since The  Great Knee Massacre of 2024.

Better keep your distance.

Battle Royale

 One of the toughest things I've ever had to deal with.

I am fighting for the Championship Belt. A big, gaudy, ludicrous thing that I can wrap around my waist as I raise my arms high and proclaim myself Knee Replacement Champeen of The World.

I am also making the final push to win at my own life.

The PT told me I am committed to doing the work, and unafraid of pain. No one has ever said that to me before. Because I have skated through life on charm and avoidance.

Feeling differently now. I made this choice, now I have to see it through triumphantly. Because I'm gonna use it as fuel to grab back big chunks of who I am.

Got a lot of time to think right now.

Do you know that I avoid a lot of things that would make me happy? Things that come naturally to me? How fucked up is that? I probably do 10% of what I should do to generate smiles. The rest lies dead on the ground going moldy and attracting flies.

I could run down a list of other shit about me that makes no sense, but I don't have time. I'm a walking contradiction, partly truth and partly fiction. 

All I know is that my brain is fucking oatmeal and I don't know why. So fuck it, I'm just gonna kick the crap out of it.

I'm gonna beat this fucking knee thing like a red headed stepchild. Then I'm going to use the strength and clarity I get from that experience to kill the imposter inside me.

Then I'm gonna have some fun.

I wouldn't bet against me if I was you.

Pain

 Got me a new knee on Tuesday. Home on Wednesday.

This thing hurts. I mean REALLY hurts. And it's so stiff it feels like it will never heal. There are some things I just can't fucking do.

Here's the theory of rehab - "You think that thing hurts NOW - try these exercises and you will fucking crumble! Three exercises I do make me exhale in pain - sometimes I have to cut it short; the rest are tolerable.

A PT person came to the house on Thursday, put me through my paces. She was encouraging, said my range was better than expected two days after surgery, said the exercising I did before surgery definitely helped. I asked how she knew about that, she said it was in my file. I had told my surgeon about that before surgery. Maybe I will be a knee replacement legend.

After torturing me she said she had high hopes for a good outcome because " I am committed to doing the work, and I am not afraid of pain." I've been married for 46 years - pain is just a concept to me. Kidding! I Love You Carol!

Then she blew smoke up my ass - "You could be using a cane next week." 

No fucking way. I had a good morning today and was encouraged. 45 minutes ago I got up to walk around the house and it was brutally stiff and painful. As if I haven't been exercising for 3 fucking days at all.

I'm just looking for some daylight - one fucking sign that the pain is subsiding, that this will get easier. Right now I'm wondering if this was worth it.

I'll keep banging away. No choice. Can't give up.